Get tough, Get Even
by zmdr
Summary: Set post "The Bitch is Back". Part dream diary, part mystery, this is a story of what happens when everyone leaves and Veronica has to solve the most important case of her life. Spoilers in reviews. Warning! Major character death. I've rated some chapters M for mature content, and they are indicated clearly. TY vm-caps for the story image. All rights belong to the CW. Or is it WB?
1. Chapter 1: The sky weeps

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: PG-13 for Language**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights. **

**Word Count: 1,900**

**A/N: **My first fic. It's un-betaed so please forgive any minor spelling or grammatical errors. Also, since I'm just starting out, I'm not too sure about my tone, voices, tense and characterisations. Hopefully it will become more consistent the more I write. Please read and review honestly. Praise is great, criticisms with suggestions to improve is even better. Constructive criticism is the soil in which literary skill grows.

**Get Tough, Get Even**

**Veronica **

_It never rains in Southern California. Yeah, right. It never rains, but it pours. _

_It certainly makes one of the worst days of my life seem even worse. Oh, yes, finding out that your father had destroyed police evidence to save your butt? Finding out that Dad, whom I respect above all things, has forsaken his values to save what he cares about most in the world? Finding out that, if I hadn't made out with Piz in his room, causation would not have lead me to piss off one of the most powerful men in Neptune, would not have lead him to pursue vengeance against Dad and I with all his considerable power and influence, and everything right now would be hunky-dory. Damn you, hormones. Damn you to hell. And Hell, if you're listening, leave a space for hindsight, would you? 'Cause I know a place where I'd like to stick it. _

"Goddamn it,"

I curse as yet another car speeds through a puddle on the road, drenching me. I swear that once everything is done and through, I would be getting a raincoat. Or an umbrella. Or I'll just park a little closer to the voting station next time. It seems that today, the skies are weeping for one Keith Mars, soon-to-be two times ex-Sheriff.

Dad's campaign against Vinnie Van Lowe had NOT gone well. Vinnie had the support of the Fighting Fitzpatricks. They created ammunition for Vinnie to use against Dad; crime rates rose BECAUSE they caused it. The campaign was not going well even before I found out he had destroyed evidence implicating me in the Kane break-in. Which I wouldn't have done if I hadn't been so horny as to make out with Piz in his room, or been so vengeful as to break into Jake Kane's house, or had been so stupid and complacent as to not even consider that Jake Kane's rich, 09er neighbours, paranoid at the recent rise in Irish crime, would install a video surveillance security system, or…

_STOP, Veronica. Chill. It's no use. What's done is done. Take what's coming, adapt, and move on. _

All right, then.

_There's ample time to look back and cry. For now, I have to get to Dad. Apologise to him face-to-face. Come clean. Attempt to regain his trust. For whatever the results of the election, only a shitstorm awaits when Dad faces the charges against him. And it seems I'm the only one he has left in this world. And he shouldn't be going into it alone. Because when the Marses stand together, there is nothing in this world that cannot be overcome. _

_Right?_

**Home**

Keith looked up as he spotted Veronica walking in. He frowned as he saw her dishevelled appearance.

_God, she looks like she has driven to New York and back. In a convertible with the roof down. While crying. _

He glanced at the crumpled morning's newspaper on the table, and put two and two together.

_Well, this should make it easier to break the news to her. _

Keith saw Veronica tense as she approached him. Before she could speak, he said, in the gentlest tone he could muster,

"Veronica, what you're about to say can wait until you have cleaned yourself up and put on something dry."

Veronica nodded as she went to her room.

And Keith returned to his room and continued to pack.

When Veronica had showered and changed, Keith called her into his room.

"Hi, Dad."

"Veronica, I…"

"Dad I'm so sorry, I didn't have to do it…"

"Veronica! Listen to me!"

Keith saw her suck in a breath, wipe the tears from her eyes and sit on the bed, facing him. He knew that he had to get it off his chest quickly and succinctly.

_Bandaids, Keith. Think of Bandaids. _

"Veronica, I have been indicted for spoliation of evidence."

Veronica stiffened.

"I have to be present at the State Court in Sacramento in a month to answer the charges. Cliff has recommended that I go there early and assemble a defence team I can trust and count on. "Lawyers who actually cost more than 20 bucks an hour", he said. He recommended I work on my case as much as possible before the trial."

Veronica nodded. She was beginning to see where this was going.

"I leave at noon."

Keith could see that Veronica was getting overwhelmed. He reached over and enveloped her in a hug.

"Mars Investigations is yours for the time being, Veronica. You're licensed, and I honestly don't know a better PI in the entire county. And I'll probably need to start on the client pool you build up after returning from Sacramento."

He made a wry smile.

Veronica could see the pain in his eyes.

"I love you, Dad, and I'm…"

"We'll talk when I return. Feed Backup, the usual, bring him on stakeouts. Don't take cases that are too big for you. And remember, school comes first. Don't think you can get off easy just because both the Professor and his TA are in jail awaiting trial."

Veronica nodded, resting her head in her father's shoulder, the way she usually did.

"And whatever you do, don't go after Jake Kane. He's like a hound baying for blood. I don't know why, but recently he has gotten a little less vocal for our complete and utter destruction."

"Yes, Dad."

"Don't worry, the State Court judge won't be able to resist the good ol' Mars charm. Who's your daddy?"

He asked with a smile.

"You are."

**Veronica **

I spent the rest of the morning helping Dad pack. I reminded him to keep safe, wished him luck and told him to eat plenty of veggies. And since he didn't want to discuss the raison d'être for the indictment, I obliged by spending the last hour and a half serving him lunch.

He kissed me goodbye.

He left the keys to Mars Investigations on the dining table.

He left in a cab.

_I know why Jake Kane has become less vindictive. He _knows_ that contents of the hard disc I found in his house can cause a lot of trouble. Why, I even gave him a teaser on what I knew about the contents just last night. It would be wise of him to back off. He would know that a person resourceful enough to brute force his 128bit encryption on that hard drive, would also be smart enough to make copies. Both of us know that it's impossible to destroy a digital file with any kind of certainty. Oh well, let sleeping dogs lie. _

**Mars Investigations – Veronica**

I cracked the door open. The room smelled a little musty. Well, what can I say? Between the six weeks of Dad taking over the Sheriff job and me working my ass off in Hearst, we kind of had problems on the manpower side of things. We had to cancel or, God forbid, refer our precious clients to the significantly seedier Vinnie Van Lowe.

Dad had trusted me to rebuild our client base when he was away.

_Looks like even Dad thinks a loss in the elections is a forgone conclusion. When Dad gives up, things have _really _gone to the shithole. _

Ok.

First things first. Put files in order.

Change the combination on the safe.

Pull out past client list.

Reach for phone.

Call said client.

Ask if there's anything Mars Investigations can help with.

Get politely declined. Or, get told that "I didn't vote for that Mars dude."

Put down phone with sigh.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I did that throughout the afternoon.

Turns out, some people actually were open to coming back to Mars investigations. Apparently getting double crossed by your PI makes one crave a little something the Marses like to call 'ethics'. I thanked them, made appointments for the following weeks, and moved on.

Pretty soon, it was dark outside.

The votes would have been counted.

I couldn't breathe.

But I could hope.

I closed up, got in my car, and drove back home through the rain.

**Home – Veronica**

I pull out the remote from the holder and turn on the TV. Backup whines and lays his head on my lap. I hug him, snuggling into the familiar, soft, brown fur.

I'm greeted by the smarmy face of one Vinnie Van Lowe, jubilant as an 8 year old kid at his surprise birthday party.

My jaw drops.

He is already in his sheriff uniform, the four stars on each lapel shining brightly. Accusingly. Four stars saying four words.

What.

Have.

You.

Done.

_Good job, Veronica. You've handed Neptune to your friendly neighbourhood Fitzpatricks, Irish thugs extraordinaire. Let's all get green clover tattoos! Ok, don't go there, Veronica. _

The newscaster snaps me out of my reverie.

"Sheriff Van Lowe, congratulations on your victory. What do you have to say about this nail-biter of an election? Any comments on your 50.1% share of the Neptune vote?"

"Thank you Neptune for voting for the asset to the community. Thank you for giving me such a strong mandate for the Sheriff position. I will do my utmost to make Neptune a safer place for all."

Oh, Vinnie. You just HAD to win with the narrowest margin possible, and then rub our faces in it.

He ends the nauseating speech with a nauseating grin. And a nauseating wave.

I avert my eyes.

Anything to avoid seeing the embarrassment on screen.

My eyes drop to the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the screen.

My heart stops.

My chest tightens.

My hearing sharpens.

I rise to my feet.

The sound of raindrops pounding on the corrugated zinc plates left in the backyard sound louder, sharper, closer.

I had thought that the skies were weeping for Dad.

But as it seems, the skies were not only weeping for Dad.

They were also weeping for one Logan Echolls.

_Oh god_

The headlines blare. "LATEST NEWS: THE ECHOLLS FAMILY CURSE: LOGAN ECHOLLS FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL ROOM"

_Ohcrap_

I know what I have forgotten. The anxiety of the Sheriff election had completely occupied my mind. I had completely forgotten a 'little' altercation that had happened in the Hearst food court. A knight in armor blazing bright, defending his lady's honor from the beast who had sullied it. A whispered threat,

"_Whoever you are, you're gonna die…"_

"_Yeah, someday…"_

Who knew that someday would come so soon? It was barely yesterday that the… incident… happened.

I need to sit down. I need comfort. I need to curl up in some place warm. I need my Dad, who is probably landing at Sacramento right about now. I need Logan, who is…

Fuck.

_Why does the world suddenly seem so blurry? Why does my head pound? Why does my heart pound like a jackhammer? Oh yeah, it's the sensation of the obliteration of the status quo, the overturning of the world, foundations of your life that you once thought were bedrock but turns out to be just crumbling sand. _

I sit down and cry. Backup doesn't even complain as I almost choke him with the strength of my hug. My tears soak his fur.

I cry until the tears dry up and I think I cannot cry any more.

I prove myself wrong.

I cry until I feel that I have surpassed the lament of the sky.

_The sky, and Veronica Mars, weeps for Logan_ Echolls.

**A/N: **Please review :)


	2. Chapter 2: What am I missing?

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: PG-13 for Language**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights. And thanks to for the transcript of Gory's confession. I lifted some of the premises from House of Lies, which is another excellent series with Kristen Bell acting in it. Also, any resemblance between my supporting characters and actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental – I picked names out at random – and I apologise.**

**Word count: 3400  
**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and the subs.  
**

******Veronica**

_The sky, and Veronica Mars, weeps for Logan Echolls. _

I take my keys, my wallet, my camera.

_Loganohgod_

I sprint out of Sunset Cliffs apartments.

_Loganloganloganlogan_

I have to remind myself to lock up.

I jump into the Saturn. I fling everything else on the passenger seat. I start the engine. I close the door. I check the rear view mirror. I reverse out of the parking lot.

I compartmentalise. Focus on the simple things. Close up the wall on the grief, rage and self-pity that threatens to spill out and cripple me physically like it did for the past hour.

I put the pedal to the metal.

I remember to switch on the headlights.

I make it to the Neptune Grand in record time. I don't run into any cops; they are probably all either at my destination, or glued to Sheriff Van Lowe's antics on live television.

I almost run over some paparazzi that are crowding the sidewalk. News vans crowd around the gates of the Neptune Grand. A news team scatters as I drive into a parking lot without stopping.

_Yeah. Paparazzi. The flies who feed on celebrities. Scavengers. Last year they were here in force; what with Aaron's murder and BEAVERnotcassidy's suicide… Nothing escapes their lenses. I know that. I'm often behind a lens as well. _

I ignore their dirty looks and shouts of protest. I ignore all but my objective: the Neptune Grand penthouse. Where the possible love of my life lies dead.

_Stop thinking like that, Veronica. It may be a hoax. It may be a publicity stunt. He may just be missing. _

My heart sinks as I round the corner. Police vehicles fill the Grand's parking lot. Their sirens illuminate the face of the hotel with alternating blue and red. White and blue police tape blocks the main entrance to the building. Police are keeping the press at bay.

_This is no hoax. The police department is not _that_ bored. _

I spot a familiar face guarding a side entrance. I make a beeline for it.

**Leo D'Amato**

Fuck. This is not going to be pretty.

I see a short, blonde girl walk out of the crowd and toward me.

Veronica's wearing rumpled clothes. Her hair is pulled back from her face in an untidy ponytail. She's beautiful.

She's been crying. Her eyes are bloodshot and she looks absolutely exhausted.

I know the reasons why.

I know that the former sheriff has left for Sacramento to defend himself at the State Court.

I know that Vinnie has won the Sheriff race.

I know that behind me, Logan Echolls, who may or may not be Veronica's boyfriend, lies dead. And it's not pretty.

And I know that Veronica is in no shape to see what has happened to Logan Echolls.

"Leo, please let me through,"

"Veronica, now is not the time."

"Let me through."

"Veronica, this area is restricted."

"Let me through."

"You don't want to see what's inside. Trust me on this. "

"LET ME THROUGH!"

I was shocked. I had never seen Veronica exhibit such emotions before. She has never raised her voice in my presence. Her voice was full of raw emotion. Loss, anger, fear, and pain came out of those three words to slap me in the face.

"Ok Veronica, I'll let you through. However, I will be with you throughout. And I'm warning you, you really don't want to see this."

_There I go again. Have I ever managed to say no to Veronica Mars?_

She nods.

I call to Deputy Kramer. He agrees to cover for me, after I tell him that Veronica knew the vic.

I take her up to the penthouse.

**Veronica**

The lift doors open. I rush out as soon as they are wide enough. Leo grabs my arm, slows me down. I glare at him. He does not release me.

We walk through the open doors of the penthouse. I close my eyes as I cross the threshold.

When I finally open them, I feel grateful for the warnings. I feel grateful that I didn't rush over here immediately upon hearing the news. I feel grateful that the last I saw of Logan Echolls, he was giving me a look I could only describe as primal, and then owning up to his mistakes by apologising to Piz. He was so alive then, the future so full of possibility. I feel grateful that the coroners have already removed the body.

I hear that hangings are not pretty. At all.

I look around the room. I force myself to be clinical. Concentrate.

A leather belt hangs from the ceiling. It is looped around a light fixture. The belt is leather, and of good, solid construction. The belt is white, a stark contrast from the polished gold of the fixture.

Below the fixture is a stool, fallen on its side. Oak, four legs.

I see open bottles of liquor on the table. I identify Jack Daniels. Cristal. Absolut Vodka. Blue Label. I see and smell vomit in the dustbin. The television is turned on, looping The Big Lebowski. We used to watch it together all the time. I know half the lines, Logan knows…_knew_… maybe a quarter that.

I see a photo of him and I on the table. It is a shot of us in happier, livelier times. We are smiling. Right now, the amount of smiling we are doing on that photo seems a little unhealthy. It is from the day Logan first took me surfing, the day when I had the most fun I had in a very long while. It was the day when I had the audacity to think that there might actually be a happy ever after.

The universe has a way of throwing a spanner into the works. There is no happy ever after, no riding off into the sunset for future adventures, no end to the misery that plagues our existence. The higher you get, the more you hurt when the world brings it all crashing down.

_Stop it, Veronica. Remember to be clinical. _

I comply. The windows are securely locked. The door is undamaged, perhaps indicative of an absence of forced entry.

There is no sign of a struggle.

_Oh God. This is about me. Logan killed himself because of me. Gory had nothing to do with it. _

I feel myself losing control, and attempt to avoid my emotions with action.

I keep a straight face as I turn to Leo.

"Did he… did he leave a note?"

Leo brings it over. It's on a plain white sheet of paper. A brown stain in the shape of the underside of the cup graces the top right corner. It is enclosed in a transparent evidence bag.

I read it.

_Ronnie,_

_I'm sorry for all the hurt I have caused you. Everything is my fault. I am, and have always been a coward. In the end, I'm my father's son. And I cannot risk hurting you anymore. I know that I will die someday. At least now it's on my terms. I'm sorry to leave you like Lily did. _

_Logan Echolls._

I stiffen. Logan would never call me Ronnie. And he would never sign off a note with his surname. He hated his father. He quoted from the last exchange I witnessed between him and one Gory Sorokin. And Lily was murdered.

I know what happened. It all makes sense now.

I was right. I had been right from the start. Gorya Sorokin, connected to the Russian mob, visited Logan last night. He probably forced him to get drunk, or Logan was already well on his way there. Logan probably thought that it was me at the door. Gory forces Logan to write a fake suicide note. He probably threatens me to ensure Logan's compliance. Maybe he even brought some muscle. Logan left clues for me in the note, something only I can pick up. Gory hangs Logan and makes it look like a suicide.

I suddenly notice the lack of crime scene photographers. I notice the lack of detectives. I remember seeing housekeeping outside the doors, waiting for the police to close the case so they can clean up. I realise that the esteemed Balboa County police department has categorised this as a routine suicide. No foul play suspected.

Why should they suspect foul play? The room was devoid of signs of struggle, the victim was clearly intoxicated, and he left a pretty compelling suicide note.

Except that the note was meant for me. Only _I_ knew the truth behind the _crime_ scene.

"May I take some photos?" I enquire.

"Go ahead, if that makes you feel any better."

Leo shakes his head at the police guard who attempts to stop me from photographing the crime scene.

I will thank him later.

I take as many shots as possible. Different angles. Every room. Every surface.

I take about five hundred shots. It takes about an hour.

I am steady, methodical, obsessive.

There is plenty of time to break down later.

I thank Leo and show myself out of the Neptune Grand. I ignore the video cameras and mikes that are shoved in my face as I push under the police tape.

The reporters block my way.

I continue walking.

They relent.

Once in the sanctuary of my car, I place my forehead on the steering wheel. Surprisingly, tears do not well up automatically in my eyes. I must have really cried myself out at home.

I reach within, and find not tears. I find a seething rage, bubbling and threatening to boil over.

I find not tears, but an all-encompassing sense of purpose which surpasses all other needs. The need for food, the need for sleep, the need for companionship.

The need to keep my father happy.

Dad is hundreds of miles away. He can't help me now. I'm 19, a legal adult. I have all the resources of Mars Investigations at my disposal.

I will stiffen my upper lip. I will straighten my shoulders. I will do what needs to be done.

I will burn the bridges behind me. There will be no going back.

I owe that, and more, to Logan Echolls.

I pull out of the parking lot abruptly, scattering some new journalists who are late to the biggest story in Neptune.

I smirk at their furious expressions.

_Talk about small blessings. With Logan's death, Sheriff Van Lowe can't hog the victory spotlight much more. _

More small blessings. The rain has slowed to a fine drizzle. The puddles on the road are slowly getting absorbed by the roadside drains. The streetlamp's diffuse reflection off the slick road surface forms halos on the windshield. I dial the wiper speed down to intermittent. I no longer have to worry about skidding off the road.

Now I am in no hurry to get anywhere. Gory will still be there in the morning. Logan will still be dead in the morning. Sleep sounds good. It will rest, revitalise, repair.

_No. It will also make me forget. _

I know I'm running on empty, but I have places to go, people to see, things to do.

Thunder fills the sky, threatening more precipitation.

The weather captures my mood.

I know what to do now. Gory must be destroyed. He must pay for what he has done. However, he can't be touched as long as he continues being a member of the Castle.

Jake Kane is going to hate me for this.

**Mars Investigations**

I open the safe. I remove the hard disc taped to the bottom of the top shelf.

I plug it into my computer. I flip through the folders filled with incriminating confessions.

I find Gory's confession. I watch through it. To the end, this time.

_Gory: So...we figured we'd go up to the mountain cabin, get loaded, and take the boat out. Parents didn't need to know. So we're getting high up on the balcony. And I hear a car pull up, and I hide, but I got a good angle. And I see my dad and Uncle Lev get out of a car. They open the trunk and pull a couple bodies out. They-they are bloody as hell. And so they drag the bodies into the workshop. And the next thing, I hear the power saw going. I always wondered why my dad put a wood shop up in the cabin. So the next thing you know, he and Uncle Lev are taking a couple hefty bags down to the boat, going out to water. When they came back, somehow they knew I had seen them. Turns out that they _are_ the Russian mob. Uncle Lev's the head, you know… Dad's the second in command. They warned me never to tell… _

I grin to myself. It is savage and mirthless. I'm glad I don't have a mirror in front of me right now.

_Note to self: when being videotaped, _never_ do a confession and _then_ say the disclaimers..._

I could make Gory's life very unpleasant. After all, what could I lose? Without Logan my life was pretty much meaningless.

I sensed that I was missing something important.

_What could it be? What's my subconscious trying to tell me?_

I shrugged. My subconscious had a nasty habit of suggesting extremely stupid things. And also showing my recently dead friends in my dreams. Another reason as to why I am, temporarily at least, forgoing sleep.

Seeing Logan right now will only make it worse. I will, at best, lose my concentration and focus. At worst, I will lose my reason for living.

I reached out and grabbed a new empty hard disc from my drawer.

_Can't hurt to make yet another copy. If Jake Kane wants his hard disc contents permanently destroyed, he'd have to find about 10 copies which I've hidden in every good place I could think of. Safe deposit boxes under assumed names, my car, my room, Weevil's house, Cliff's place, a few other lawyers; I think I've even sent one copy over to New York for Jackie. If I should suddenly disappear or die in an accident, the lawyers have instructions to turn the discs in to the nearest newspaper. I planned to make more but 10 copies, meticulously hidden, is still pretty good for half a day's work. _

I plan for an hour. It is a bold plan, but it will be effective. It will undoubtedly royally piss some very powerful people off, but I have been there, and done that.

But this plan requires information.

Information which I do not have at the moment.

And the plan requires me to get my hands dirty.

I'll cross that bridge when I'm there. Then I'll burn it behind me. And dance in the ashes.

You can never be over-prepared. I need to approach this case with the utmost caution. I need to measure and predict the consequences of my actions.

No more What Ifs.

As I checked the space requirements for the file transfer, something catches my eye.

I have never noticed this before.

The total size of the files on the disc is less than the actual space used on the disc.

I need an expert opinion.

Which is why I'm calling Mac at midnight.

I call her from the Mars Investigations phone.

"Veronica?"

"Hey, Mac, sorry about the time…"

"Ohmygod I was soo worried! Why aren't you answering your phone?"

_Oops. _

"Erm. Hrm. I left it at home. I'm at the office right now."

"Look, Wallace, Piz, Dick and I have all been trying to call you for hours!"

_Ok. Mystery solved. I'd forgotten about Piz. Who, as usual, comes second place to Logan. I really need to talk to him about this. It's clear my feelings for Logan significantly eclipse what I feel about him. _

"Mac, I'm sorry. Can you do me a favour?"

"Veronica, I saw the news. I'm sorry about your Dad. And Logan? Oh my God..."

"Mac, this is not the time. I need your help."

"For you, especially now, anything."

"Tell me about hidden files. How do I locate them, view them, and do the above in, oh, about a minute? I'm kind of running on fumes at the moment."

Mac gives me the instructions. It is relatively simple. Turning on the 'view hidden files' option doesn't reveal anything new, so she sends me a file excavator which does the trick marvellously.

"Veronica, are you all right? Want me to come over? I'm sure Wallace and the rest would like to come too."

I am seriously tempted.

However, the night is still young.

My crusade for justice is just starting.

I hang up after saying no.

I turn my eyes to the files that were, until just recently, so cleverly hidden in plain sight.

It is good reading.

**2 hours later**

I sit back, amazed.

_The Castle. Besides sharing all their dirty little secrets between members, something much larger is at foot. The hidden files are documents. Documents detailing various dealings. Records of financial transactions. Illegal dealings. Insider trading. Favor trading. Fraud on the scale of which Richard Casablancas, Senior can only dream about. _

Investigation does not require the best memory. It does not require the best intelligence. It does, however, require the ability to connect the dots, and to be sharp. A good investigator needs to be able to take a look from above, see the big picture. I have always been good at that. It's a fact. I do not hide behind modesty. And luckily, I have also been blessed with above average memory and intelligence.

A PI with less perception would have been puzzled with the results of the Kendall Casablancas investigations. I saw the real estate fraud and I knocked down Big Dick Casablancas' house of cards.

What I am seeing is larger than a mere house of cards. It shows financial transactions numbering in the millions. It shows who received what, who gave what. LeBron La'toya, quarterback for the California Sharks, 1989 Castle pledger? Multimillion dollar sponsorship deal after a Castle-controlled company buys out the Sharks for a pittance. Jake Kane, owner of Kane Software? Short sells on Metro Capital Bank just as it files for bankruptcy.

Other tawdry tidbits I find in the folder: Sexual favors between staff of different Castle-controlled companies. Quid-pro-quo cultures in the companies; the exchange of sexual favours for advancement in the company ranks. Business practices who will make the SEC _very _interested with them.

I find even more shocking information. A rising Neptune politician, Michael Day, who was gaining popularity by promising the crackdown of secret societies and increase in security was assassinated ten years ago. The murderers were never found. I find a scanned newspaper clipping of the incident. Day's head was circled in red. Below it was written: "McKinley - Velasquez $500k". Prominent local businessman Jason Richards, missing, presumed dead 5 years ago. Who knew that he used to be a Castle member who was threatening to expose the organisation?

Apparently the Castle takes care of its own.

This is serious stuff. I have really hit the mother lode.

Wallace wasn't lying when he said that being in the Castle would mean that the world would be at ones feet.

Everything is nicely catalogued. Jake Kane is a stickler for details. He makes an excellent secret-keeper.

Thanks to him, I have the ammunition I need.

From the difficulty in accessing these files, I can guess that this hidden folder was compiled by Jake Kane, for Jake Kane. It is a secret from the rest of the Castle. Which means, Jake Kane _cannot _allow the information that I have discovered to reach the notice of the rest of the society.

I hit 'print' on my computer.

He _must_ bend to my will.

He _will_ have to do it at 3 am in the morning. After what I've discovered, I own him now. He just doesn't know it yet.

I still have an ace in the hole. But that's one ace I'd rather not have to use.

I still think I've missed something.

I walk out to the Saturn, in the rain. It still hasn't stopped.

_The sky weeps for Logan Echolls. Veronica, however, can no longer cry.  
_

**A/N: Please review! Constructive criticism is very welcome. **


	3. Chapter 3: No one blackmails a Kane, P1

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: PG-13 for Language**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Word Count: 3700**

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental and I apologise for it. **

**A/N:** I'm moving a little slowly at the moment as I'm trying to work on my style. The character of Kyle Edwards was a spur of the moment creation. He is going to be an extremely minor character. He may be the focus of a future chapter (fluffy) where he tries to recreate Veronica's coffee.

_The sky weeps for Logan Echolls. Veronica, however, can no longer cry. _

**The Kane Estate**

Kyle Edwards is just doing his job. Mr Kane was nervous about living in the subdivision. So Kyle's boss, Clarence Wiedman, arranged security for his house. Armed guards, with dogs, patrol the compound in randomised timetables and routes. A temporary guardhouse was built outside the driveway until the final one is ready. Biometric locks on all possible entrances to the house. A state of the art alarm system directly linked to the Neptune Sheriff's Department, and two more private security firms who promised shorter response times than the incompetent police. Kyle thought that it was all fine and dandy.

The guardhouse is little more than a shack. It's constructed out of plywood. It resembles a portable toilet with a window. The interior is illuminated by a single fluorescent bulb. A small spotlight illuminates the area outside the window so the guard on duty can identify any visitors. The door doesn't fit well in its frame. The roof doesn't hold water.

Kyle wonders: why is he standing at the guardhouse early on Sunday, watching for intruders? Surely a guardhouse wouldn't be able to stop nor deter any intruder determined to evade the patrols, bypass the locks and escape before the police and trigger-happy employees of two highly paid private security firms locks the estate down.

It's all about appearances. Patrolling guards are all fine and good, but they are not meant to be seen. Biometric locks aren't apparent from outside the house. Neither is the alarm system.

The guardhouse is there to give a message to any potential intruder: this house is guarded. Don't try anything. Don't fuck with the occupants.

But that doesn't explain why he's standing alone in the guardhouse, in the rain, alone on a Sunday morning. His cup of coffee is long empty. His leather shoes are soaked through. His socks are squishy. He misses his dog. He misses his bed. A gust of wind blows through the holes between the door and the frame and he shivers.

The pay is very good. The hours? Not so good.

He can't wait for the guard change at 4 am.

It has only been two days since he had this job and he already hates it. Nothing ever happens at 3 am. Everyone's asleep except him, the patrolling guards, and Clarence Wiedman.

_Finally, some excitement. Someone else is awake at this Godforsaken hour. _

He spots a silver Saturn VUE outside the estate. It stops inside the pool of light thrown off by the streetlamp. The headlights are turned off. The driver's door opens. A young woman exits. She is dwarfed by the vehicle. A manila folder is clasped in her right hand, a Thermos in her left.

Her footsteps echo off the walls of the estate as she approaches the guardhouse. She is clad in jeans and sneakers. She carries a black bag slung from a shoulder. Her brown windbreaker is zipped up all the way. The exterior spotlight illuminates her pleasant features and makes her blonde hair seem even lighter in color.

"Hi!" Her smile and greeting brightens up the cold, dreary guardhouse, illuminated by the stark, harsh glare of the temporary fluorescent light.

"How may I help you, Ms…?"

"Mars. I have an urgent delivery for Mr Kane. The Tokyo specs? They sent it by urgent mail and I'm the courier."

"Well, Ms Mars, I'm sure you know the time right now. If it is possible, may I sign for it and pass it along to Mr Kane when he wakes up later, first thing?"

"I'm sorry… Kyle," she says, glancing at his name tag, "this is urgent. Like the Rebellion needing the help of the Ewoks to destroy the Death Star shield generator before the Death Star can wipe out their fleet? That kind of urgent. Plus, it's for his eyes only." She smiles, waving the manila folder. 'Jake Kane' is printed on the address sticker, with his address below it. A stamp with the words "For your eyes ONLY" graces the top right hand corner of the envelope.

Kyle smiles. He likes Star Wars.

"I don't know… I can make a call to my supervisor, Mr Wiedman. He'll know what to do."

"Thanks! You're so great!" She beams.

_Well, maybe guard duty today wasn't such a bad idea after all. _

"Wait. On one condition."

He smiles in what he can only hope is a charming fashion.

"I'll call my supervisor only if you give me what's in that Thermos."

She smiles again, showing a row of perfect white teeth. She uncaps the Thermos and fills his cup with coffee. Steaming, hot, black coffee with and extra flavour he cannot identify.

"You're an angel from up above."

"Just doing my job. Now, if you please?"

She gestures to the phone.

Kyle takes a gulp of the coffee. Heaven. The warmth fills his chest and spreads to his wet feet. The caffeine makes him just a little bit more alert, a little happier, a little more awake. He turns to the phone as the girl fills his cup again.

"Mr Wiedman,"

A deep voice fills the receiver. The voice drips professionalism.

"Mr Edwards? Are you calling to complain about the wind again?"

"No sir. Mr Kane has a visitor who claims to have an urgent document for him. It is to be signed for by Mr Kane himself. It concerns something called the Tokyo specs?"

A sharp intake of breath.

"Tokyo? They don't usually send couriers… Is the messenger still there?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you get a name?"

"Yes. Her name is…" he covers the receiver and the girl dutifully mouths out her first name. His coffee cup is full again with the heavenly goodness called coffee. "Veronica Mars."

"What? Send her in immediately. And no matter what, _do not_, I repeat, _do not _eat or drink anything she gives you."

"Sir, it's just coffee. It's good. Professionally made. Like Starbucks, except without the price tag." He winks at Veronica.

"She worked as a barista at Java the Hut. A long time ago."

"That explains a lot."

"Send her in."

Kyle waves Veronica in as he clutches the full cup of coffee in his other hand.

_I think I'm in love. _

**Veronica**

I like to think I'm almost always prepared. So when I shot out of the house an hour ago, raring to meet Jake Kane and rub his face in the data I found in his hard disc, I forced myself to turn back and to prepare.

I prepared coffee. It would all be for naught if I nod off and crash into something hard, sharp and unyielding. Like a road divider. Or Celeste's nose. I fill my Thermos, trusting it to bring me through the night.

I put on a windbreaker. The rain showed no sign of stopping.

I put the incriminating documents into a manila folder. I'd be damned if I'll be caught around with files outside folders. A girl's gotta organise, somehow. Filing is one of the important things in life. Which is why I have a key to a DuraGuard file safe manufactured prior to 1990 on my keychain.

I digress.

Turns out the new guard in the temporary guardhouse likes coffee. A lot. And if I'm reading him right, he's hitting on me. Like I have the time for this crap. Outing the murderer of the love of my life? It's going to be a full time job.

I smile sweetly at Kyle as he waves me through.

_Gotta keep up appearances. _

I walk down the driveway and to the front door. Motion sensor lights illuminate the area before the front door as I approach. Spiffy. The door opens. Clarence Wiedman glares at me from inside the house. He is dressed like he was yesterday. _Or was it two days ago? Days are blurring together._ Black polo inside black bomber jacket.

"Good Morning Mr Wiedman! How was your day?" I ask, all perkiness. Coffee does that to some people. Not to me. Not since Logan died. All coffee does right now is keep me functional.

"Come in, Ms Mars." The look in his eyes is reminiscent of the rain clouds overhead.

The door closes behind us. Clarence Wiedman turns and stares at me, arms folded.

"What brings you here today, Ms Mars?"

"Well, well, well. Clarence Wiedman. The last I saw of you, you were a mere butler. Now, you're the head of the guards. Watch out world! This man's going places."

"I assume you haven't come here at 3 in the morning to trade insults."

"I need to see Jake Kane. I have something of his that he doesn't want leaked and he can do something for me."

"Blackmail can wait until the morning. Preferably when the sun rises."

"I can't. And you know me, I'm persuasive."

"Mr Kane's not going to like this."

"I know."

Clarence Wiedman leads me to Jake Kane's office. I suppress a shudder as we pass the creepy portraits of Duncan and Lily that are on the walls. He sits a coffee cup in front of me and tells me to wait as he leaves the room.

The room is just as I remember it from a few nights ago. It reeks of affluence. Books line the shelves. A large mahogany table dominates the room. Lilies fill a flowerpot next to the window. An ornamental cactus sits on the desk.

I smile as my eyes lie on the lilies. It seems like so long ago that Lily was taken from us by Aaron Echolls. She was full of life, shocking all around her with the exuberance of it. When she was gone, the void that replaced her would tear us all asunder.

I will never eat or drink anything Clarence Wiedman gives me. Not after what I've done to the Kanes. I pour the coffee into the pot with the cactus. I fill the cup with my Thermos. I brew good coffee, strong enough to almost support an upright spoon stuck into it and full-bodied enough to almost… just almost… make up for my lack of body mass.

I take my first sip as Jake Kane walks into the room with long strides which eat up the distance between us. He is livid. He obviously has just been woken up, as his eyes are bleary and his clothes rumpled. That's good. I want him to be off balance. I want the ball to be in my court. For what I'm about to ask him to do is pretty big.

"Veronica Mars." He chews the words and spits them out. Like I'm a disgraceful bug dirtying his house.

"Coffee?" I indicate the cup in front of me.

He sinks into the chair behind the mahogany desk, supporting his head with his arm, as a way of answer. I am aware of Clarence Wiedman waiting at the door, preventing unwanted eavesdroppers.

_Or preventing unwanted escapees. _

I try to forget that thought.

"You're aware that Logan Echolls was found dead earlier tonight in the Neptune Grand." I successfully keep tremors out of my voice as I say his name.

"Yes. My condolences. What's your point?"

"I have reason to believe that Gorya Sorokin has had something to do with Logan's death. I want you to expel him from the Castle."

"That's impossible. The police department concluded…"

"The police department is an incompetent pile of crap. So is the new Sheriff. You know that. You had something to do with it."

"If I recall correctly, _you _were the one who…"

"That's beside the point. Look, all I want is for Gory Sorokin to be expelled from the Castle. I want to bring him down for what he did to Logan. No one should die like that."

"How am I supposed to do that? He is privy to the Castle's secrets, just as all our members are. He knows a lot of damaging information."

"Jake… Jake." Jake Kane's eyes narrow at the familiarity of my greeting. "You don't get to run a Fortune 500 company without some smarts. Gory's father and uncle are Russian Mafia. And the Russian Mafia doesn't like tattletales. His secret is all you need to keep him quiet about yours."

"I'm not doing it. The Castle hasn't had an expulsion in recent history. And we'll need a very compelling reason to expel Gory. He's been an exemplary member. I won't do it for you, Veronica, even if you could have been my daughter. The Castle takes care of its own. "

"Oh, please. Dispense with the cute slogans. Ok then, let's not make this about me. Let's make this about you."

"Release all the evidence you want, Veronica. The Castle is powerful. We have judges and lawyers who will throw out any piece of evidence in that hard drive as forgeries and fabrications. It will take some doing, but it will be done."

I throw the manila folder on the table. Time for trump card number one.

"Wonder how I knew about your relationship with Tokyo? Take a look in the file." Jake Kane looks at the folder apprehensively. He picks it up and slowly begins to unravel the string sealing it. Clarence Wiedman shifts uncomfortably at the door.

"Turns out that you've been a very, _very _naughty secret keeper. Yes, I found the hidden folder." Jake Kane stiffens, glares at me and rips the manila folder open. Spread sheets, pictures, documents and interview transcripts spill from the tear and puddle on the large table. They contain what I've discovered in the hidden folder on Jake Kane's hard disc. Insider trading, with every transaction recorded with dates and times. Records of favour trading. Records of corrupt and highly unethical, not to mention thoroughly misogynistic business practices. Records of contract killings.

"The SEC will die for even a small part of what was in the folder. Your competitors will sue, rightfully, for copyright infringement and break your bank. The SEC will make what happened to Big Dick Casablancas early last year seem like a walk in the park compared to what could happen to your Castle companies. And a lot of fine people can go to jail."

Jake Kane picks up a spread sheet, studies it carefully. He slams it down, takes up the next one, studying it as well.

"Really, I always thought you became rich and successful because of good ol' spunk, hard work and good business acumen, but as it turns out, that's all a fabrication, isn't it?"

Jake Kane doesn't answer. He slams down the second sheet, and goes on to the third.

I continue. "Your organisation will become the target of innumerable lawsuits, investigations, crackdowns. The exposé will set the Castle back centuries."

_I love my hyperbole._

Jake lets out a harsh chuckle. "You exaggerate. The Castle has been around for only a few score years."

"Maybe. But the fact remains that you hid the files on the hard disc for a reason. You placed the files behind 128 bit encryption, and on top of that, hid the folder, because you're not supposed to know this information. I think that even in the Castle, you still possess secrets you would like to keep from the rest."

Jake Kane has stopped leafing through the spread sheets. His attention is focused fully on me.

"Imagine what the Castle would do if they discover that their secret dealings have been exposed. Imagine what they would do if they discover that the information originated from _you_. Imagine what they would do if they discover that a 19 year old blond girl in a liberal arts college managed to circumvent _your_ security and reach those files… They might actually think you're trying to betray them. And as you said, the Castle takes care of its own." My hand snakes across the table and tap a newspaper clipping detailing the disappearance of Jason Richards. Jake Kane's eyes follow my finger and remain on the article. He is very still.

I hear a hand being placed on the back of my chair. It rests uncomfortably near my head, menacing. I resist the urge to turn back. To run. To grab my Taser.

"And if something should happen to me, if I should mysteriously disappear or die, copies of the hard disc can and will find themselves in the possession of the police department, FBI, and every press publication, both major and tabloid. The next day's papers will be _very _interesting."

The hand is removed. I show my teeth to Jake Kane. He sighs and rests his face in his hands.

"Veronica, you force my hand. I will do as you ask. Gory Sorokin is as of right now no longer a member of the Castle. And you will not release any of this information."

"For the time being."

"I suppose this is the best I can hope for. Please leave now. I don't want to see you again, ever, if I can help it."

"Mr Kane, I can assure you that the feeling is mutual."

"Now what am I supposed to expel Gory for?"

"Seriously, you want me to do all the work? I don't run a charity, you know."

I finish the coffee. It is still warm. I turn from Jake Kane. Jake Kane, who could have been my father, whose stare is now burning holes in the back of my windbreaker.

Clarence Wiedman shows me out. As I leave the front door, and the motion sensor lights illuminate my path again, he calls out to me again.

"Veronica."

"Yes?"

"You're playing a very dangerous game here, Veronica. You watch your back, now."

"Is the butler going to do it?"

He doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. The threat hangs in the air like dense smoke. I turn and walk away, fighting the urge to sprint for the nearest piece of cover.

_Now, what am I forgetting?_

**Kyle Edwards**

I sip from my coffee mug. The taste is unique, strong and full-bodied. The aroma itself is enough to fight off the sleep which threatens to make me fail at my job.

The girl…_Veronica if I remember correctly_… walks out of the house. She is no longer carrying her manila envelope. She holds her arms around herself, hugging herself. She looks vulnerable, scared, lost.

"Ms Mars, is everything all right?"

It must have been a trick of the light. Moon shadow can play tricks with your eyes sometimes. She looks up and the bubbly cheerleader shows up again.

"Yes, Kyle, everything is just great! Clarence is just so friendly! I'll see you around sometime!"

_Mr Wiedman let her call him Clarence? It must be because I'm new here. _

"Please, by all means. The nights are long, and just having someone to chat would be great, you know?"

She smiles coyly. My heart skips a beat. I feel the heat rushing up my neck and I change the subject. I indicate my coffee cup.

"By the way, can I please get a refill? This stuff is great!"

She obliges, pulling her Thermos from her sling bag. The aroma of the coffee fills the small shack I dignify by calling a guard house.

"What is this stuff anyway?"

"Erm… it's Colombian Maragogype with a little hazelnut extract I added to enhance the flavour."

"Sounds fancy, thanks!"

I notice that the rain is picking up again. Freakish weather.

"For the refill, I'll walk you to your car. It's raining and I have an umbrella. What do you say? Chivalry ain't dead."

She gives me an inscrutable expression. Then she beams and accepts.

I walk her to her car, umbrella in hand. She really is smaller in person as compared to when we are separated by the guard house wall. I have about a head's height over her. I give her most of the shelter of the umbrella. My right side is drenched by the rain.

No worries. I still have a cup of the wonderful Columbian… _what is it again..._ coffee in the guardhouse.

I open the driver side door and shelter Veronica as she slides into her car. I wait for her limbs to be clear of the edges before closing it behind her. I stand on the roadside and wait for her to leave.

She smiles at me and mouths _thank you_ through the window.

The engine starts with barely a stutter.

The lights flick on. So do the wipers, giving me intermittent glimpses of Veronica's face.

It must be a trick of the moonlight again, as she seems to be crying now.

The car pulls out of the parking lot and disappears into the distance.

I realise I'm still grinning like an idiot.

And I realise that it's only been the second day on the job, and I've abandoned my post.

I double back to the shack.

I hang the umbrella up, and sit down and breathe in the aroma of the coffee.

_Ah, the last bit of entertainment before the next guard takes over. _

As the rich taste flows down my throat, my thoughts return to Veronica.

_She's cute, makes absolutely fucking amazing coffee, and works odd hours. And she makes me smile. And, she likes Star Wars. And I've never done anything chivalrous for a girl in, like, forever. _

_Get real, Kyle. Veronica's way out of your league. She probably has a boyfriend already. He's probably rich, lives someplace nice, and would take her in and cuddle her after a long day's work. She will probably hate your dog. Girls hate pit bulls. _

I sigh. My situation is laughable. Here I am, awake at 3.45am on a Sunday morning, acting as the first and last, but definitely the most useless line of defence against intruders who are never going to come. My job satisfaction is low. The pay barely makes up for it. What is left after rent goes to pay my mother's hospital bills. When my shift ends, I'm going to finish my coffee, go straight home, feed my dog, watch the news, and sleep until my next shift. And I'll be trying my hardest to forget about one Veronica Mars.

_Veronica Mars… I wish I was her boyfriend…he is probably so happy and lucky to have her. _

I bark out a laugh. I take a swig of the heavenly brew. So much for forgetting about her. I look out at the road, where the circle of the streetlight illuminates the now-empty lot where the silver Saturn used to be parked. All that is left now is a puddle of water on the floor, reflection interrupted by drops of rain. I look at the clouds in the sky and hear the thunder promising a dreary Sunday. The raindrops thud into the roof of the guardhouse.

I realise I most likely will not see her again. I realise that I've forgotten the name of the blend of coffee sitting in my mug. I realise there's not a snowball's chance in hell she will be with a loser like me.

I walk out. My replacement has arrived. I grin and finish the rest of the coffee, which I'm never going to taste again, all in one swig. When I raise the cup, rain falls into my eyes, making them sting and blur.

_The sky weeps for Kyle Edwards. _

**A/N: **Please review!


	4. Chapter 4: Morpheus

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: NC-17 for Language, disturbing themes, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Veronica buries Logan and makes her move against Gory. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights. **

_The skies weep. _

**Veronica**

Mars Investigations is having a quiet night. Dad is off chasing some bail-jumper, so I'm holding the fort at the office. I take the opportunity to finish some of my assignments I have for Criminology.

_Now that's strange._

I can't see the assignment question clearly. The ink is mottled and blurred. The letters snake around, disappear and coalesce as I run my finger over the sheet of paper.

_How do I find the answers when I don't even know the question?_

I put my assignment back into my bag. I don't know the deadline for that assignment but there's no way I can make any headway when my worksheet is acting up like that.

I sigh. The clock says 10pm. The sky outside the window is dark, without a moon. The street is empty. The only car parked on the street below is my LeBaron.

_It's time to go home. _

I lock up the office. I walk down the short flight of stairs to the ground floor. I have a red solo cup in my left hand, filled with soda.

_I need to replenish the office's supply of coffee beans. Soda's too sweet. Sugar is no substitute for caffeine. _

I place the soda in the cup holder behind my handbrake. I start the car and pull out.

I sip the soda and replace it. My mind wanders.

_When I get home, I'll feed Backup. Come to think of it, I miss him a little. I'll give him a double portion of biscuits, with extra Snausages. Then I'll get up early tomorrow and give him a walk to burn off the extra calories. Backup's a heavy pooch; he can stand to lose a few pounds. _

The world swims.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears.

_Oh fuck. How did this happen?_

My hands are limp on the steering wheel. The dead weight of my nerveless foot lies on the accelerator. The LeBaron's engine roars. The car hurtles down the deserted road.

My eyes are the only part of my body which responds to my brain's commands. The rest of my body is sluggish, slow, tired. My ears seem like they're filled with water.

I feel something touching the back of my neck. I look around frantically.

_What's happening?_

_A person_ sits in the backseat. I cannot see his face; it is obscured by shadow. The thing touching the back of my neck _is his hand_.

He smiles with ivory white teeth. The gleam is clearly visible through the rear view mirror.

_Nononononononono…_

If my chest muscles still worked, I would scream. Unfortunately, they no longer obey my commands.

My lungs burn. I need to breathe.

The hand touching my neck shifts to the left. Cool, dry fingers stroke my cheek.

I whimper despite myself.

I force myself to look ahead.

I see a bend in the road. The traffic barrier separating the road from the cliff is approaching. Fast.

_TURN!_

I scream in my head. My arms refuse to respond.

A finger slips into my left ear. I feel warm breath on the right side of my face. I can't even shudder.

The car plows through the barrier, barely slowing down. The airborne car slowly flips forward through the air until I can see the 50 foot drop to the canopies of the trees below.

_Nonononono_

The fall seems to take forever. My eyes dart around frantically. A glance to the rear view mirror shows that the backseat is empty.

_What?_

The car hits the trees.

Metal shrieks as it bends, tears, and gives up the fight.

The LeBaron comes to a rest on its roof. I am upside down. The windshield is shattered. Tree branches reach across the shattered windshield, into the car. I look down and see a thick branch sticking into my abdomen.

There is no pain.

I smell gasoline. The crash must have ruptured my fuel tank. Burst it like a balloon. When I look upwards at the roof, I see the liquid pooling there.

_This is bad. _

I hear the flick of a lighter.

_What? How did he…_

I smell smoke. I hear the crackle of tinder catching fire. I start to sweat. I try to struggle out of the seat, out of the doors before the car catches fire.

_Wait. Somehow I can move now. _

But the branch in my abdomen holds me fast. As I struggle, the white shirt around the branch starts turning dark red.

The crackling of flames grows louder. The metal of the car starts to _ping_ as it is unevenly heated.

My breath gets faster and shallower as I continue my futile struggles. My shirt is now soaking with blood. I feel the walls closing in on me.

The pool of gasoline below my head catches fire. A ripple of flame envelops the entire pool and the interior of the car is ablaze.

The heat is unbearable.

The pain is unbearable.

I shout for help. I plead for mercy. I cry for my father to come and rescue me.

_How can Dad help? He's out of town, chasing bail jumpers. _

Dad always comes through for me.

I keep screaming his name.

My hair burns to a crisp. My skin blackens and tears. I feel my eyeballs boil. I continue screaming.

_Dad…_

I scream until I breathe in a lungful of fire, and everything turns black.

I open my eyes.

I am on a street. The road is surrounded by buildings on each side. The sky overhead is pitch black. Yet the light from the streetlamps is sufficient for me to see. The light casts everything in shadow. There are no cars on the street. The drab facades of the buildings rise up into the sky, seemingly without end.

I hear footsteps.

I whirl to the direction of the noise. A shadowy figure ducks into the lobby of a deserted building. I follow him inside. He enters a lift and the door closes. I watch the floor indicator steadily rise until it stops at the roof.

Every instinct screams at me not to follow him.

I do the next best thing. I call for backup.

I pull out my cell phone. I type a message, telling Logan to meet me on the roof.

Logan will come through. Dad's out of the state catching some child molester on the run.

I enter the lift and push the button for the roof.

The ride is shorter than expected.

I walk out when the doors open.

I see him. He is still shrouded in shadow. He is small, only slightly taller than me. He runs. I take off after him.

Footing on the roof is treacherous. Power lines, air ducts and walkways criss-cross the surface of the roof. The figure trips on a power line. A pistol goes flying and clatters on the floor. He recovers quickly and continues his flight.

I barely slow down as I bend down and scoop up the weapon.

I manage to trap the figure at the corner of the roof. I point the pistol at him.

"STOP!" I yell.

His only response is to grin, displaying his too white teeth.

"Who are you?" I ask.

He takes a step forward. I take a step backward.

"If you come any closer, I'll shoot," I caution.

"Veronica Mars. You know who I am," The figure says. His voice is murky and indistinct. He takes another step forward. I try to step backward but my back thuds into a wall. His features are shrouded in shadow.

Suddenly, fireworks fill the sky. Only, they look more like explosions of fire than actual fireworks. The harsh glare illuminates his face. He is…

_I recognise him. I hate him with every fibre of my being. But why the hell can't I name him?_

He takes another step forward. He isn't wearing a shirt. He grows larger the closer he gets to me. Huge muscles start to bulge in his arms, neck, torso. His tendons stand out from under his skin like cables.

"I'm warning you…" I try and fail to keep a quiver out of my voice, an audible plea for him to stop.

He takes another step.

"You are not a killer, Veronica. Give me the gun," His voice is oily. It slips and slides into my ears, making me shudder.

Another step. Five yards separate us.

I pull the trigger.

It's stuck. It refuses to budge. I stare at it in disbelief. I jiggle the safety. Now the gun is live.

Another step.

I pull the trigger.

Click.

The hammer falls on an empty chamber. I try to remember what Dad taught me about the mechanisms of firearms. I try to remain calm.

Another step. Four yards.

I fumble for the magazine release. The magazine clatters on the floor. I pick it up, seeing the shiny gold of rounds inside the magazine. I take three tries before I successfully replace the magazine inside the handle of the pistol.

Another step. He is close now.

I pull the slide back. It's stiff. I have never done this before. The slide slams back home, the hammer is pulled back and the safety's off.

_Aim at the centre of mass…_

Another step and he's next to me. He towers over me; I barely reach his waistline.

I pull the trigger.

Click.

"You're not a killer, Veronica. Give me the gun."

I look up in fear. His teeth gleam. The gun quakes in my hand.

A huge hand shoots forward, clamping on my neck. The fingers dig into the concrete wall behind me. He lifts me up as though I weigh nothing. I gasp for breath as my feet leave the floor, frantically pulling on the trigger.

Click. Click. Click.

Another hand crushes my hand holding the gun. It falls from limp fingers.

_Can't…breathe…_

I kick spasmodically as I try to loosen the fingers around my neck. They are as strong as steel. Vaguely I feel myself being swung in the air.

"Who will be convicted for the death of this teenage girl?" I barely hear the figure's mocking voice ring out. The fingers release.

I gasp as blood starts flowing to my brain. I suck oxygen into my lungs.

I'm falling.

Windows streak by as I plummet toward the ground. It is a long fall.

_Where the hell is…_

"…Logan Echolls, beloved brother, precious son, cherished friend, forever more will you be remembered."

I jerk up with a start. I drop my handbag. People front and back frown at me, muttering, as they turn their attention back to the speaker. I hide my face as a form of apology.

_Shit. I've managed to fall asleep at Logan's funeral._

It's the same dream I've been having for the three nights since Logan was killed. It's more like a nightmare. The dream is an amalgamation of the most horrifying events that have happened to me in the past few years. However, in my nightmares, no one comes to my rescue. No one rides in, guns ablaze, and pulls me out of danger. How can they?

_Dad's in Sacramento accounting for my misdeeds. Logan's in the coffin. _

Piz and Mac look at me, concern written on their faces. On my right, Wallace does the same.

"Sorry, I'm just tired," I explain.

All of us who knew Logan are here. Weevil wasn't invited so he's currently paying his respects from outside the cemetery.

Parker Lee is delivering her eulogy. Her face is streaked with tears. She obviously still loves Logan even though they broke up just before he was murdered.

_Join the club. _

Dick Casablancas is next. His eulogy is short, slightly crude, but extremely heartfelt. There is nary a dry eye left in the audience when he finishes.

Finally, Trina Echolls speaks. She flew down from Virginia Beach where she moved last year. She moved there last year shortly after burying Aaron Echolls. Logan still kept in touch despite the distance between them. They were the only two Echolls left in the world, after all.

_And now there is only one Echolls left. _

I look at Trina with pity. I try to imagine what I would feel like if I didn't have Dad. Losing Mum was painful enough. I empathise with her, share in her pain, feel her heartbreak as she cries and bids farewell to her brother.

The coffin is lowered into the ground. The attendees slowly file up to the grave, throwing in flowers and giving their last goodbyes.

"Logan, I know what happened in that room. Gory will answer for what he did," I whisper as I throw my bouquet inside.

The attendees disperse as the funeral ends. Not many of the attendees know Logan personally. They are here only to show their faces. They are only here to have their five minutes of fame, as they stop for interviews outside the cemetery.

The paparazzi are here in force. News vans line the road outside the cemetery. The police have barred them from entering the cemetery and causing disruption but there is nothing they can do on the public road. Flash bulbs flicker in the distance as guests start talking animatedly to the cameras.

I turn around in disgust. And almost walk into Piz.

"Hi Piz."

"Hi, Veronica."

"…"

"Veronica, it's been a long day. You should get home, get some rest." Piz's eyes show only concern.

Piz is really taking the breakup well. I told him on Monday that I had some unresolved issues with Logan, and so we couldn't see each other. He was understanding and left me alone. Of course, after confirming that I wasn't in denial.

It hasn't stopped things being awkward between us.

It has been busy since my amicable departure from the Kane's mansion early Sunday morning. I worked hard and fast, and managed to accomplish quite a number of objectives before Logan's funeral today. Wednesday.

First, I called Dad. His legal team has already been put together. They are discussing strategies to answer the charge against him of spoilage of evidence. They are considering using a precedent from a previous case of evidence disappearing from police custody. I tell him that Logan has committed suicide. I tell him that Logan and I were broken up. I tell him that I'm fine. I tell him to stay in Sacramento and work on his case. I cannot have him jeopardise his case just so he can rush back to Neptune to comfort me. I am stronger than that. I lie.

_I'm not fine. I blackmailed Jake Kane, perhaps the most powerful man in Neptune. I'm after a person who's connected to the Russian mob. I'm having nightmares. I hate feeling alone. I know that if Dad returns, I'll just curl up in his arms and cry for the rest of the year. He has to stay in Sacramento. He has to fix the problem that I caused. _

Next, I bugged Gory Sorokin. I get a little petty with the bugging, because of what he did in Wallace and Piz's room last week. I pick his lock when he's out for classes. I sweep his room for pre-existing bugs. I find none. I bug his bookcase. I bug his table lamp. I bug his pen. I bug his fan. I bug his paperweight. His stapler. His room phone.

I wait until he goes for his shower and I break in his room again. I bug his cell. I bug his headphones. I bug his watch.

I leave without him noticing and bug his car for good measure.

I left about fifteen listening and video devices in his room.

Third, I make some online purchases. I route them through several proxies and use a false name. I pay with a prepaid credit card. Untraceable.

Fourth, I burn a DVD with Gory's confession. I label it "Sorokin Crime Family". I place it in an envelope. I do not lick it, I seal it with double sided tape. I address it to the Organised Crime Division of the FBI field office in San Diego. I type a letter and place it inside, neatly folded:

"_To whom it may concern,_

_It has come to my attention that the Organized Crime Division is currently investigating the Russian Mafia in San Diego. I have come across this video recording. The subject of this video is Mr Gorya Sorokin, an undergraduate student at Heart College, Neptune, BC California. His father's name, which is not revealed on the video, is Boris Sorokin. As I understand, the Russian mafia is particularly secretive about its leaders. You will be delighted to know that Lev Sorokin is the head of the family, and Boris Sorokin is his second in command. _

_Regards,_

_A concerned citizen."_

I handle the envelope with gloves. I don't leave a return address. I post it in the mailbox outside the Sack n Pac. I know it's a relatively popular place and there is no security camera coverage of the mailbox.

"Veronica?"

I snap out of my reverie. Most of the guests have already left the cemetery. Piz, Parker and Dick have already left. Mac and Wallace stand beside me.

I smile weakly, thanking them for their support. I relish the feeling of the company of friends.

_A stick bends and breaks easily, yielding to the wind. Many sticks, together, can weather the storm. _

I watch as Trina leaves. She is clad in black from head to toe. A veil covers her face, shrouding her features.

As Trina leaves the cemetery, the paparazzi swarm her.

She doesn't lap up the attention, surprisingly enough. She waves the reporters away, walking through the crowd into the waiting limo.

I can hear across the distance. She is yelling at the reporters to leave her alone.

Logan's death must have hit her harder than I thought. For her to ignore publicity is like going against nature.

"Mac, Wallace, let's go home."

We came to the cemetery together. We leave one of us resting in the ground.

**Two days ago**

**Veronica**

I start my surveillance of Gory. I ask Mac to help me forward the input from the bugs to my computer at home. She attempts to explain how it works. I stop listening once she starts rattling off IP addresses and TCP/IP protocols.

I have to find out his schedule. His habits, likes and dislikes. I have to find out if the other two phases of my plan is working as intended.

Gory doesn't take the expulsion from the Castle well. Today is the day after I met with Jake Kane. Gory receives a call on his cell at roughly 8pm. A familiar garbled voice informs him that his services as pledge master are no longer required. A reason is not given.

_It appears Jake Kane is not as creative as I had thought._

Of course, Gory threatens to release the Castle's secrets. The garbled voice on the other end of the line warns him of the consequences of betraying his father and uncle.

_Now _that_ was totally my idea. _

Gory hangs up, and silently sits on his bed. He calls someone after half an hour. The phone is a disposable, untraceable cell. He apologises to the person on the line. It is his father. He tells his father that he had been expelled from the Castle. A slew of Russian expletives is the only response.

_Thank goodness for Google translate. _

I gathered from the rest of the (thankfully English) conversation that Gory is the only person in the Sorokin family who was able to get into the Castle. The family needs the Castle's influence and resources to expand their business on the West Coast. Boris sounds disappointed. He hangs up.

Gory stares into space for quite a while after his father hangs up. He leaves soon after. The bug on his car shows him stopping outside a nearby bar. A quick online search identifies it as "The Mugger Toad". I know this bar. It is a favourite haunt of the students of Hearst, featuring lax ID policies, pool and an inviting atmosphere. A quick check with the bartender reveals that Gory had been visiting the bar regularly. He would come in, order vodka, play a bit of pool, and generally relax there. The bartender tells me that he would spend most of his Saturdays there playing pool.

_Apparently he's quite skilled. Both at holding his liquor and on the pool table. _

He returns to his room at roughly 3 am the next morning. His car is still parked at the bar. He is drunk.

_Interesting_.

I finally fall asleep. Once again I wake up in Mars investigations, on a slow night, with an impossible assignment in my hand.

**Two days later**

The same nightmare happens every night. It terrifies me that I cannot remember anything from the real world when I am dreaming. I cannot remember who the shadowy figure is. It's only when I wake up that I know that the nightmare isn't real.

_The sweat-soaked bed sheets are real. Backup's concerned eyes are real. You're not falling. You never did fall. _

It is the study break before the examination period. There are no classes. I make my way down to Mars Investigations. I can study while observing Gory.

A new fax is in the tray. It is an APB notice from the Neptune police department. Similar notices probably have been sent to all nexuses of public transport, borders, gas stations, police stations, and every PI worth a damn.

The reward is a cool fifty grand. Each.

_The FBI came through. Boris and Lev Sorokin are now wanted men. _

My bugs show me Gory frantically trying to call his father on his cell. He is uncontactable and presumably on the run.

The irony of it doesn't escape me.

He sits forlornly on his bed. He looks like a lost little boy.

I smile in triumph. Gone is the cocky man who ridiculed me about my intimate video and my height a few days ago. Gone is the man who dropped his towel and lewdly came onto me. Gone is the man who called me a bitch in the food court.

I check the PO Box I use at the post office. My online purchases have arrived. The internet is efficient.

I return to Mars Investigations. I watch and wait.

I write a paper entitled: "The values of persistence in intelligence gathering in Criminology: A case study of Al Capone." I'm inspired. I should do well for my end of year thesis. Professor Landry's replacement, Associate Professor Laine, is not easily impressed but this should net me an A.

Any further action will have to wait until the examinations are over.

I watch, and wait.

**One week later**

I detect Gory's car leaving for what I assume is another vodka run at the Mugger Toad. It makes its way to the River Stix. Gory leaves with 20 grams of heroin.

I watch the video feed with interest as he dissolves some of the white powder into water. I watch as he wraps the tourniquet tightly around his arm. His veins stand out in his skin, the blood pooling inside. I watch as he draws a syringe full of heroin and injects it into a vein in his arm. I watch as he removes the tourniquet, allowing the drug to course through his body. He sighs with contentment and sinks into his bed. He keeps his stash in a box in his closet.

He isn't an idiot. He doesn't visit the Mugger Toad to drink himself silly and shoot himself up on the same day. He knows what mixing alcohol and drugs can do to you.

_Interesting. _

**Two weeks later**

Gory Sorokin is a changed man. Slightly more than three weeks ago, he was going places. Twenty four hundred on the SATs. Son of a mobster. Pledge master of the Castle. Distributor of Piz's and my most private moments.

Now, he's in the dumps. He visits the Mugger Toad more and more often. The Safe-Ride-Home crew gets him back every time. He drinks through the examinations. He didn't even bother studying. He takes up heroin.

Logan visits me in my sleep occasionally. Perhaps a third of my dreams are of him. I recall my happy moments with him. I recall the good times and the bad. I recall the passion we had for each other; passion that burned so strong that we got burnt every time we got too close to each other. He winks at me and tells me that it just doesn't add up. He holds me close and makes the world's problems evaporate.

The other dreams? Pretty much the same deal, as always. An indecipherable assignment. A drugged soda. A car crash. Burning. A dark figure. A confrontation on a rooftop. A malfunctioning pistol. Me choking and falling. Logan doesn't appear in this dream. Even though I scream his name until my voice is hoarse. Sometimes I hit the floor before I awaken.

Backup must be pretty freaked out with the amount of screaming I've been doing in my sleep over the past few weeks. He has chosen to sleep in my room so he can nudge me awake when I start screaming or thrashing about.

I can never name my adversary when I wake up.

I make a call to Sacramento. Dad's trial is in two weeks. His defence team is pretty confident that he can get away with as little as a fine. Most of the impetus for the prosecution has disappeared with Jake Kane not pushing as hard for Dad's conviction. I tell him my examinations are over, and that I should do well. I lie about how I'm dealing with Logan's death.

Today is Wednesday. It's a night out at the Mugger Toad for Gory. He will return to his room at about 3am tomorrow, extremely drunk.

Today is the time to act.

Today I'll find my answers.

Today I'll find out what happened in Logan's penthouse three weeks ago.

Today, Gorya Sorokin will wish he had never crossed me.

I check that Gory has left for the Mugger Toad.

I get my stuff together and drive to Hearst.

I pick his door lock.

I hide in his closet.

_Good thing I'm small._

Something niggles at the back of my mind, like something I've forgotten. I dismiss it as unimportant.

I wait.

**A/N: **This chapter is slightly longer than the others, because of the lengthy dream sequence and me advancing the storyline three weeks. I found dealing with the shifts in time a little challenging so you may find that this chapter is a little disjointed. I don't know much about the US college assessment system (I'm a college student in Australia) so I took a few liberties with the Hearst examinations. Anyway, I'm taking a week's break as I'm currently in the middle of examinations. My muse seems to work the hardest when I'm supposed to be studying.

I'm very encouraged by the subs to this story and the number of views my first attempt at fanfiction has gotten. I know killing Logan is an unpopular decision but please bear with me. Please do review if possible. Is the plot too confusing? Are the characters sufficiently fleshed out or are they too two-dimensional? Should I involve the supporting characters more?

See y'all next week! Anyone knows what's a Mugger Toad?


	5. Chapter 5: No one weeps

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: M for Language, disturbing themes, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights. And I don't condone the abuse of drugs or alcohol in any way. Also, murder is very bad. **

**A/N: **This chapter was very hard to write. It's partly because of the plot I had to get into, the dialogue and partly because of my exams. This chapter contains a scene of graphic death.

**A/N2: **This chapter is rated M for the graphic death of a character, drug use and alcohol. You have been warned.

**Veronica**

The harsh glare of neon signs hanging from the side of buildings places everything in stark relief. Red, purple, blue, green. Badly maintained, some sections of the neon lights are dark. Other sections still fight the good fight, straining to stay lit as the proprietors ignore their dwindling glow.

The sign across the street flickers, a yellow strobe light. The sign is supposed to say "Girls Girls Girls" but disrepair and age has caused the sign to read "-i-s G-rls Gir-".

Somehow I know I'm dreaming. This is the first time I remember that I have been lucid in my nightmares.

Clarity.

The neon signs on the buildings surrounding me are legible. Strip clubs, bars, night clubs and other tawdry establishments line the road. I look down and see a road slick with spilt beer. I'm wearing a hair net, jeans, a long sleeved t-shirt, and for some reason or another, latex gloves. I look like a thief. Cockroaches scurry about in dark corners. Rats squeak while scrounging for scraps. Up above, a crow caws. The cry sounds forlorn and mournful. A bright crescent moon occupies the night sky above. A cool wind blows. Crumpled newspapers swirl like leaves. I breathe in and smell a hint of vomit, alcohol and rot. The smell of tawdriness and sleaze.

_Can you throw up in a dream?_

I know how this dream will end. The dark figure will appear. I'll chase him into one of these buildings. I'll message Logan in vain. I'll meet the figure on the roof. And then I'll die.

Today's different. Today I'm prepared. I have clarity of mind and purpose. Today, the nightmare _just_ might end differently.

Familiar footsteps sound, echoing off the walls.

I spin around. He is walking into a building not thirty yards away from where I am.

The sign on the side of the building reads "-ep-u-e Gr-d".

Lucidity serves me well. Unmarked, anonymous buildings have been transformed into recognisable landmarks.

I whip out my cell phone. I send the message to Logan, even though I know he's not going to get it soon enough to matter.

BEEP

_That sounds familiar. _

I turn around slowly.

"Logan?"

He's standing there before me. He looks almost exactly the same as when I last saw him, a few weeks ago in the Hearst food court. He's wearing a light grey, almost white shirt with vertical stripes. His face is devoid of bruises and dried blood. He is looking at his cell phone and reading the message on it.

My heart aches with the loss of Logan. Having him stand in front of me, whole and alive, just makes the pain more acute and raw. It's just like Lily all over again.

"Meet me on the roof? Wow, Veronica, brevity has long been your strong suit. How am I supposed to know which building to rush up to save your ass?"

His smirk tears at my heart.

"Hi, Logan."

"Hi, Veronica."

I rush forward and give him a hug. He feels solid, strong, present, real. He feels like a protector, an avenger, a pillar of support. He feels like the Logan that would have been had he not died. I know that this is a dream, this is an illusion, but I gladly make myself believe it.

"Glad you decided to turn up, Logan. What, no jealous girlfriend stalking you, watching your every move?"

"Veronica, you know as well as I do that that jealous girlfriend stalker would be you."

He touches the tip of my nose.

I smile and bury my face into his shirt.

"Ah, the pleasures of life. Standing in the dark, with a hot blond in my arms, waiting for the sun to rise so we can ride off into the sunset."

I suddenly remember why I'm here.

"Logan, will you follow me to the rooftop? There's someone I have to meet."

_Yeah. Meet. What a euphemism. _

He nods. Looking into his eyes is like looking into the soul of the human spirit.

I grab his warm hand and head into the Neptune Grand.

"Wow, this place looks familiar."

Indeed the opulence of the Grand is astounding. Logan used to take to it like a fish to water. Crystal chandeliers, leather sofas, marble floors, ivory sculptures, art on the walls; the whole décor is tasteful without becoming overdone and kitschy.

The magnificent lobby is empty. Half-eaten drinks and food lay on the tables in the lobby restaurant. Water flows in an uninterrupted stream from a tap behind the hotel bar. One of the elevators servicing the upper floors is open. The other is closed, and as can be seen from the floor indicator, is on the top floor.

_The floor just below the roof. _

We enter the elevator and choose the top floor. The roof is accessible through a service stairwell near the elevators. I take the stairs two at a time. I burst out of the access door and stride onto the roof.

The figure shrouded in black – my bogeyman – is there, waiting, just as before. I give chase. Logan is close behind me. The figure darts around a corner. His hand strikes the wall and a pistol goes flying. I barely pause as I scoop it up and continue the chase. The sounds of the footsteps of three people running on sheet metal are thunderous. I hear Logan's laborious breathing behind me, but somehow, I'm not fatigued.

The chase ends at a familiar corner. The figure is trapped. Logan and I cut off any possible routes of escape.

"Who are you?" I ask as I level the gun at him.

"Veronica Mars. You know who I am."

Yes I do. I remember this situation. I remember the night on the Neptune Grand rooftop like it was yesterday. I remember the feeling of being raped over again, the pain of losing a father, and the pain of electrocution.

I open my mouth as the fireworks – no, explosions - in the night sky illuminate his face.

"Your name is Cass…"

It is Gory. My eyes widen in shock. Then they narrow in anger.

"Gory. You killed me and made it look like a suicide. You could have stopped at that. But no, now you have to turn up in Veronica's nightmares too?"

I've almost forgotten that Logan's behind me.

Gory smiles and takes a step forward. He seems larger now. I know that if he gets any closer he will be unstoppable. I aim the gun. I know it wasn't loaded from my previous nightmares. I pull back on the slide. A bronze round flies out of the ejection port.

_Well, something's different. _

"You're not a killer, Veronica. Give me the gun."

_Now Logan's saying it. _

"He killed you, Logan. I'm old school. An eye for an eye."

"I think you mean Old Testament." Gory snarks as he takes another step.

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

I pull the trigger.

BLAM!

The shot tears through Gory's chest. I can see the night sky through his body. There is no blood. He ignores it, smiling like nothing had happened. The empty cartridge tinkles on the concrete floor. He makes as if to take another step.

I pull the trigger again. Repeatedly.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

Three more rounds do the trick. Gory stumbles back, gaping holes in his torso and head. There is still no blood. He doesn't give me any more lip. He staggers back, tripping on the edge of the roof. He falls.

The gun holds steady as I keep aiming it at where Gory used to be. Logan comes up to me and gently pushes the gun down, making me lower it.

I hear a thud as Gory hits the floor far, far down below.

We walk to the edge of the roof and peer down. Gory's broken body lies at the bottom of the Grand. He is definitely _not_ going to be walking that one off.

_Just to be sure._

I take aim once again. Logan looks at me and whistles appreciatively.

"Wow. Vengeance, thy name is Veronica."

I pull the trigger.

BLAM!

BANG!

I start awake as Gory's door hits the wall. Slowly, I get my bearings.

_I'm in Gory's closet. He should be back from the bar. How the hell did I fall asleep?_

I check my inventory as Dominick Desante's irritated voice filters in through the closet doors.

"Fuck man, Gory. You aren't in the Castle anymore; you can't make me your slave! This is the last time I'm going to bring you back from the bar. Next time, call someone else."

The door slams shut. I continue checking my inventory.

Phone on silent? Check.

Car keys? Check.

Online purchases? Check.

I hear uneven footsteps approach the closet door, with the accompanying stench of cheap liquor and the sound of an _extremely_ out of tune Russian song. The tune is so mangled that I can't even differentiate between it and a chant.

_Crap. The closet isn't a good hiding place after all. Only one thing left to do._

The closet door opens. Gory doesn't even see me as he reaches for a towel. Mr Sparky does his job. Gory slumps on the floor, the combination of alcohol and 300,000 volts making him unconscious.

Taser? Check.

* * *

I move quickly. I've rehearsed this day many times in my head over the past few days while monitoring Gory's movements and habits. I have everything planned out, all possibilities identified and a contingency for each.

_So why on earth does Gory have to be so fucking heavy?_

It takes no small effort to place the unconscious Gory on his bed. I lift the drunk, non-combative college student with my legs, not my back. It's the only way I can do it without hurting my back; after all, he probably weighs almost half again as much as me. I have to watch my back. There's no one left to do it for me. I'm sweating by the time I roll him off my shoulder and onto the mattress. He is still asleep like the dead, the pig.

I open my box of online purchases. Inside lie four handcuffs. They aren't made of steel like those which are used by law enforcement. No, they are made of leather and cloth, with steel buckles to hold them close on the sides. Steel handcuffs will chafe and injure the skin. The restraints which I have bought are gentler on whoever they are used on. Be it a bondage partner (for that are the cuffs intended purpose) or a murdering member of the Russian mob, these cuffs would hold secure through whatever shenanigans the owners have in mind, without breaking the skin.

I quickly secure Gory's limbs to each corner of his bed. I tie them tightly, one end to the wrists and ankles, the other to strong points on the bed frame. He ends up splayed out like a starfish. He doesn't stir as I stuff one of his socks into his mouth.

He doesn't stir as I remove more items from his closet.

He does stir, however, when I give him a good slap across the face. The crack of a latex gloved hand across a flaccid face rings through the room. Bleary eyes meet mine and strain to focus.

"Morning, sunshine."

I'm sitting behind the head of the bed, so I am looking down at his face.

"I'm here tonight for a little talk. Answer my questions truthfully and quickly or I'll make your bad day a lot worse."

His eyes follow me as I circle the bed. They seem to be getting a bit more focused now, and he seems to be trying to move around. Good thing I used restraints. He struggles to speak. Good thing I used a gag.

He grunts as I tie the tourniquet around his left arm a little too tightly.

"How can your day get worse? Gorya, you're not stupid. You got full marks for your SATs. You know that mixing drugs and alcohol isn't good. I've been observing you for the past few days, Gory. Drinking as much as you have recently? Real classy. But taking up heroin? That's a new low point even for you. "

I've mixed some of Gory's heroin stash into water. Judging by the packaging, I used just about two grams. The needle attached to the syringe clinks against the sides of the cup as I draw the syringe full. There is barely any resistance as the needle slips into a bulging vein in his forearm. The skin is already pockmarked with similar puncture marks. The plunger goes in without resistance, the rubber stopper gliding smoothly down the body of the syringe. Just like it was meant to. Gory's eyes stare into mine. He's really getting awake now. I can see him starting to try to fight off the alcohol induced haze in his head.

_One down. Three more to go. _

By the time all of the mix is safely inside Gory's arm, he's actively struggling against his bonds, to no avail. Twice I had to re-secure the gag to prevent him from spitting it out.

_At least I have the decency to use a clean sock. I could have used something much worse. Like underwear. Dirty underwear. _

I drop the syringe on the floor and resume my seat behind the bed.

"Gory, Gory. Remember the last time I was here? You invited me to stay for a drink. Now I'm here. Hope you don't mind."

I take a pull of water from a bottle I brought with me. I'm not touching anything in this room besides what's absolutely necessary.

"You have two thousand milligrams of heroin in your arm right now. If you do anything stupid, like say, shout or scream or act in any way that I deem to be not cooperative, I take off the tourniquet. That much heroin in your system with the amount of vodka you've drunk? You know what's going to happen."

"You cooperate and I'll call the ambulance. I'll leave the tourniquet on. And no one's going to believe you, a drunk, good-for-nothing soon-to-be dropout, when he accuses me of doing this to you. And depending on how quickly this conversation goes, you may get to keep your arm."

I touch his left arm. The fingers on his left hand are already turning purple.

He doesn't respond. I think he understands.

_Geez, how much _did _he drink tonight?_

I take a risk and remove the gag. He starts breathing a little easier.

"Wha…what the fuck?"

His speech is slurred. He's pretty out of it. I've seen Mom like this way too often.

I slap his face lightly a few times in an attempt to wake him up. His eyes focus on mine.

"Why would you kill Logan, Gory?"

"Everyone's gotta… die someday." He starts to giggle. He doesn't stop.

"Shut up. Answer the damn question. And just so you know that I mean business, I was the one who got you expelled from the Castle. And I was the one who caused your father and uncle to be wanted by the FBI."

"Wha… how?"

"I appropriated Jake Kane's hard drive. I got a look inside. I persuaded Jake Kane to let you go due to what I found inside. Oh and I also sent your pledge to the FBI so you know… So why did you kill Logan?"

He's quite awake now. My mention of the Castle and his father and uncle has really riled him up. He struggles in his bonds and his face twists in rage. The restraints hold.

_Thank God for online sex shops and Paypal._

I touch the tourniquet with one finger. He settles down.

_Good boy. _

"You f..fucking b…bitch! I'm glad your coward of a boyfriend is d…dead!"

My voice is frosty as I reply.

"Well, the bitch is back. How did you kill Logan?"

"What the fuck? You want me to say that I killed him? That I faked his suicide? That I drugged him, forced him to write a suicide note, hung him up with his belt and left him to die? Maybe that I had some of my friends tidy up the room after I was done, huh? Tell you what, you stupid cu…"

I cut his insult off with the sock. I've heard enough. His eyes are staring into mine. He suddenly looks terrified. I can't blame him. I've heard the people who are close to me remark on my facial expression when I get seriously pissed off.

They all say it looks pretty scary.

My gut is a potpourri of emotion. Blazing anger at Gory. Frigid resolve to see that justice is duly served. Aching sadness of the loss of a beloved friend, lover, confidante. The emptiness of the knowledge that I'm missing something important.

I know how it all ends in the dream.

_You're not a killer, Veronica. Give me the gun. _

_Logan's dead. Gory is clearly responsible. _

_I'm sorry, Logan. Sometimes, the people you love let you down. _

My fingers loosen the tourniquet. Gory shakes his head frantically. He is screaming behind the gag. The bed frame rattles a little as his arms flail about in vain.

The tourniquet flutters in the still room air as it floats to the ground, a dark green rubber tube lying near to a discarded syringe. A tale of excess and debauchery gone wrong.

Gory's frantic struggling only serves to make his blood flow faster, distribute the drug faster. He's out within two minutes, his eyeballs rolling up into his head. His breathing becomes shallow and slow. I remove the sock from his mouth; he doesn't need it anymore.

I wait.

_This has gone on way to far, Veronica. Call the ambulance. Now!_

I ignore the voice inside my head.

Gory starts to throw up. White vomit trickles from his mouth and down his cheek. The room starts to stink even more of alcohol and the new, sour smell of vomit.

Gory starts to cough weakly, choking. I cover his mouth with my hand. I ignore the voice in my head. I cover the screaming in my head with the thoughts of the merits of handling vomit with latex gloves instead of bare skin.

I hear a sickly sound as he starts to inhale his vomit. It's not long before he stops breathing altogether. His lips turn blue. He is completely limp.

I discard the dirty gloves. I put on a fresh pair.

_MURDERER!_

I release Gory's limbs from the restraints and arrange them naturally. The soft restraints didn't leave any marks on his wrists and ankles. I replace them in the original box in which I brought them in. I keep all the bugs I previously put in the room in my bag. I had removed and kept them before hiding in the closet and falling asleep. I didn't want Mac to accidently witness what had happened tonight.

_MURDERER!_

I check my inventory again. All bugs present and accounted for, my hair net is still in place, and I haven't left anything suspicious in the room. The Taser, water bottle, and all that I've brought into the room are safely tucked inside my bag.

I almost forgot. I take up the syringe and tourniquet. I roll both in Gory's hands. The hands are limp and are getting slightly cold. I replace them on the floor.

_MURDERER!_

I do one last check of the room. I'm satisfied. I exit the room, leaving Gory on his bed. The corridor is deserted in both directions. No one is up and about at half past four in the morning. I run into no one as I exit the dormitories. I listen for security guard patrols but find none. I avoid corridors with security camera coverage. I've been caught on camera twice. Both incidents led to inordinate amounts of trouble. I'm not about to make the same mistake again.

_MURDERER!_

I reach my car without incident. I place the used latex gloves in a paper bag; I'd burn them later. I place the leather restraints in a plastic bag; I'd throw them into the Pacific Ocean later. Something still tickles in my mind, behind the accusing screaming, like an itch that can't be scratched, something important I've forgotten.

_MURDERER!_

_Actually, I prefer the term: Vigilante. There'll be ample time to break down when I reach home. _

As I pull out of Hearst and onto the highway back home, I notice my windshield is bone dry. It has been a dry week, and today is no different. There's not a single cloud in the sky. Spring is seguing comfortably into Summer.

The corners of my mouth tug upwards.

_No one weeps for Gory Sorokin._

**A/N:** Please review! Was I too graphic? Is Veronica too vengeful for her character? I tried to make her anguish the reason for her actions; she feels responsible for what has begotten Keith and Logan. Please do say if I've carried that point over clearly enough.


	6. Chapter 6: No one blackmails a Kane, P2

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N:** Thanks for all your reviews. To **Nicole, **please consider leaving a signed review so I can PM you to address your concerns. And thanks to **HoneyBee1 **and **silverlining2k6** for the support and the suggestions about publishing.

**A/N2:** Since I've not received any complaints about Kyle, I've put him in this chapter again. I find him a useful framing device for the goings-on in the Kane estate. And as you may have noticed, I love my dream sequences. I leave clues in the dreams, through imagery, omission, dialogue.

**A/N3: **I finished writing this at 2:15 am before my holiday trip to Sydney. I leave for the airport at 7 am. So the level of editing may not be up to par, please forgive me. Also, I'll try my best to keep writing while on holiday. The magic of mobile tethering.

**Saturday, Kane Estate, around 10pm**

Kyle Edwards is not a happy man. Sure, the temporary guard shack has been replaced with a brick and mortar, legitimate guard house. The construction crews really worked their asses off on that one. Sure, the weather has improved significantly over the past few weeks. Sure, the job is easy and the pay is good, even if prospects are a little bleak.

He thinks back to that night a few weeks ago. It was raining. An angel had reached through the pouring rain with a hand that poured forth coffee. The angel had a name. Veronica Mars. Courier for a Kane software subsidiary. Brewer of fine coffee.

He looks down at the dregs left in his coffee cup. He sees some murky, brown… can that still be classified as liquid?... clogging up the base of his coffee mug. He sighs. Jake Kane is still on the edge. Guards still patrol the estate. The guard house is always manned. Clarence Wiedman watches over the entire house and its surrounding area with an eagle eye.

He's been experimenting over the past few weeks. He had bought a mid-line coffeemaker with his savings, placing it in his one bedroom apartment. He's been sourcing for coffee beans. He's been brewing almost non-stop during his off-duty times. Different blends, different combinations, different brewing methods. He's given up having his dog sample his creations.

Kyle doesn't want his dog to hate him. Or worse, attack him on sight in self-defence.

He's been drinking the results of his experiments during his duty times. The sad, miserable results of his experiments.

Some days the coffee makes him gag. Other, better days, it just tastes like bitter water. Some days, it tastes like cigarette ash mixed in water, even though he is absolutely certain no type of tobacco made its way into the coffee maker.

Today's experiment looks and tastes like shit.

Kyle sighs. The chance meeting with Veronica Mars three weeks ago changed his entire outlook on coffee. Previously, coffee was only a caffeine delivery system. After that chance meeting three weeks ago on that cold, rainy Sunday morning where he finally discovered the full potential of a cuppa? Coffee has now become an obsession for Kyle.

He tips the cup. _Something_ brown _rolls _out of the cup and plops on the white table top. The surface tension is so great that when the next drop plops on top of the first, the two drops refuse to combine. The result resembles two chocolate chips resting, one on top of the other.

_I may just have discovered a new state of matter. Hooray. _

Kyle sighs again for the umpteenth time. This job wouldn't be so boring if the Kanes were visited by many people. Hell, even having to chase off paparazzi would help alleviate the boredom. But Jake Kane is keeping a low profile ever since his trouble with the law. Three years ago, Jake Kane obstructed the course of justice by framing Abel Koontz for the murder of Lily. Since then, he has been in and out of Neptune. He has sold his old house and purchased this new one. He lives alone now. Lily is dead, Duncan is wanted by the FBI, and Celeste Kane has grown attached to Aspen.

Kyle is lucky if he sees more than one visitor pass his guardhouse by during his shift.

Still, he prides himself on his professionalism. He never sleeps on the job. He never reads newspapers nor listens to music while on duty. His uniform is always clean and well-pressed. He watches diligently, with only his coffee to keep him company. It is the least he can do for the amount he is being paid.

The security camera covering the road outside the compound shows some movement. It is a familiar silver Saturn VUE. It shines under the streetlights. It looks like a new coat of wax has just been put on it. The driver's door opens and a familiar figure steps out. _Veronica Mars. _Kyle's mouth begins to water as he sees a familiar Thermos flask in her hand.

"Ms Mars! I haven't seen you in three weeks! What's it this time, more problems with the Tokyo account?"

Kyle reaches for the phone. She holds up the Thermos with a questioning look on her face. Kyle nods and thanks her as she fills his mug with coffee.

"Kyle, the Tokyo business has been concluded. My boss wants Mr Kane to receive these documents concerning a possible Dunkin' Donuts expansion in Australia?"

She holds up a manila folder. A Dunkin' Donuts sticker graces the front. An outline of the Australian continent surrounds it.

Kyle turns to the telephone.

"Mr Wiedman? Veronica Mars is here with documents concerning a snack franchise expansion in Australia."

"What? What kind of franchise?"

"Dunkin' Donuts, sir."

Kyle hears Clarence Wiedman curse.

_Veronica must hate to be the bearer of bad news. Mr Wiedman almost never curses. _

"Send her in. Quickly."

"Yes sir."

Kyle waves Veronica through. His heart skips a beat as she smiles and thanks him. Her footsteps echo as she disappears into the driveway.

He doesn't stammer as he thanks her for the coffee. At least, he doesn't think he did.

Kyle takes a sip of the coffee.

_She's really outdone herself. I didn't think that last coffee she brought could be improved, but clearly she has done it. _

Kyle smiles, alert and refreshed, as he begins to think of how to replicate the coffee currently in his cup. He is glad for the distraction; he still has six more hours to go before his shift is over.

Kyle is a happy man.

**Three days ago: Veronica**

The acrid smell of burning paper and latex wafts through the cool night air. I'm standing on one of the many lookout points dotting the Pacific Coast Highway. I've got a small fire going, where I've placed the bag with the soiled gloves. My car is parked on the shoulder. A bright, crescent moon is overhead. Below, the Pacific Ocean churns as the waves end their miles long journey, from the middle of the ocean to a nameless cliff face. The reflection of the moon on the water is broken and diffuse. It is almost like a walkway of light stretching from my location into the horizon. The silence of the night is only broken by the sound of waves and the crackling of merrily burning flames.

_It's so peaceful. If I close my eyes it would sound just like an evening on the beach with a barbeque. _

My switchblade makes short work of the leather restraints. The steel buckles go over the guard rails and into the water first. The leather bands go over next. Finally, the cords which used to connect the bands flutter through the air, down toward the water below, just like…

_The tourniquet flutters in the still room air as it floats to the ground, a dark green rubber tube lying near to a discarded syringe. A tale of excess and debauchery gone wrong... _

I shake my head to clear it. I try to purge the image from my mind. _Purge. _I feel my gorge rising. I try to force it down. I succeed. Barely. The sickly smell of the burning rubber doesn't help matters. It brings back memories of a dark night two years ago, a deliberate car crash…

_I should just stop thinking for a while. _

I stamp out the dying flames. No sense in causing a forest fire in addition to… all I've done. The horizon is beginning to be lit by a diffuse orange glow. Dawn is here. I return to my car, and drive back to Neptune.

_Red sky at morning, sailors take warning, huh? Good thing I'm no longer a Pirate. _

I keep under the speed limit. Vinnie's doing a shit job of keeping law and order, but somehow his deputies are extremely on-the-ball when it comes to speeding tickets. Bribery is good for supplementing a deputy's income, I hear. And today's not the day to be speaking to anyone from law enforcement.

I pass the PCH bike club on the way into Neptune. They're thundering up the highway in the opposite direction I'm going. Life goes on, apparently. They're probably off to scare some old ladies or something.

The sun is already up when I reach home. I weigh the pros and cons of sleeping, and decide on staying up. Adrenaline and caffeine will get me through the day. I don't feel like using any fancy blends or techniques so I just place a filter over the cup, fill it with powder, and pour boiling water through. Backup comes up to me, panting. I fill his bowl with food.

The filter paper darkens, turns brown. The coffee seeps through the filter, drops gathering at the apex of the filter cone and dripping into the cup. I sit at the table, head in my hands, mesmerised by the drops falling, one by one, from the filter. The sound of the drips is soothing, calming, lulling me to sleep…

I'm on a rooftop.

The phone chooses that exact moment to go off. Right next to my ear. I start in shock. My right foot shoots out and kicks the table leg. My hands slam onto the table. The impact knocks my full mug off the table. The mug shatters on the floor, spilt coffee spreads in a puddle. Backup whines.

_Fuck. What happened to adrenaline and caffeine? Right… I haven't actually _had_ any caffeine yet. _

I decide to handle all the tasks at once. I trap the phone between my shoulder and my ear, and start to grab a kitchen towel to mop up the spilt coffee.

"Veronica? I wasn't sure you were awake."

"Hi Dad. How's Sacramento?"

"Same old, honey, same old. The weather's actually pretty good, now that you mention it. It hasn't rained here ever since I've reached."

"The weather's good here too. Two weeks of dry weather? The laundry is happy."

"Veronica, as you probably guessed, I didn't call to tell you about the weather."

"What's up, Dad?"

I have a bad feeling about this.

"My trial has just gotten postponed by two months. The prosecution tells me it's something about reviewing the evidence or another, and that Jake Kane's only able to testify on that date."

"What? Dad, you said that Jake Kane stopped pushing for your conviction."

"Sorry to get your hopes up, honey. People change. Change is the only constant, Veronica. Don't worry, they won't be able to pin anything on me. By the way, have fun in Quantico. You're totally going to kill it for the FBI."

I shudder at his choice of words.

"R-right. Thanks for letting me know, Dad. I'll have to tell our clients that we won't be available during the next few months."

"Love you, honey."

"Bye, Dad."

I hang up.

I clear the coffee spill. I gather the broken fragments of the mug and throw them into the trash.

_Wait. _

I retrieve the fragments. The mug hasn't shattered so much as it is just fractured. It's in about five separate pieces. Nothing some super glue won't fix. I grab it out of a kit and get to work.

_Giving up on problems is what the people I despise do. I won't run away from my problems. I won't run away from the problems affecting people whom I care about. I won't run away from the problems affecting people whom I care about, which I caused. I _will_ remedy the problems right at their sources. _

The mug is whole, waterproof, and functional. The cracks are still visible, but the mug is fixed.

_Let's hope that I'll be able to fix the other things I've broken just as easily._

I have two different problems to address: the Sorokin family which had the power, muscle, and connections that made it possible for Gory to act the way he did. Second, Jake Kane. He is the impetus behind the witch hunt for Dad.

I decide to deal with Jake Kane first. I'll visit on Saturday night. I know he'll be at home. I know the sentry's weakness for good coffee. I have my final trump card. I'll hate to use it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

I drive to Mars Investigations. I inform our clients of our imminent hiatus. I place several phone calls. I do a little online research. I gather my metaphorical ammunition.

Watch out, Jake Kane.

* * *

I stand opposite a figure hidden in shadows. The night sky is devoid of anything. No moon, no stars, no airplane position indicating lights. The sky is inky black, so dark that I can't even tell if it's just feet above me or miles. The roof is lit by a cacophony of different colors. Red, yellow, blue, pink, orange. The lights flicker. I cannot identify the sources of the lights; my world consists only of me, the shrouded figure opposite me, and the roof.

The roof is concrete and stable underneath my feet. The figure steps forward. The glare of the lights illuminates his face, strips away his anonymity, the shadow. It's Gory. He isn't wearing a shirt. He has a towel around his waist. He looks exactly like how he looked when I confronted him in his room before Logan beat him up.

"Isn't it a little cold to be wearing so little?"

"You know, I liked you a lot better when your clothes were off."

Gory always is able to rub me the wrong way. I clench my fists in irritation. I look down in surprise. Somehow there's a gun in my hand.

_Now where did _that _come from?_

Gory turns and places his hands on the railing on the edge of the roof. His back is corded with muscle. My eyes stop on his right shoulder blade. What I previously assumed was a scar is apparently a tattoo. It says 77.

"Now, are you going to use that on me? Me, a harmless, unarmed, practically naked man who's literally backed against a wall?"

_What is he talking about? I have no intention of shooting him. He's just irritating, not dangerous. _

"No? How disappointing. Never mind. There's not only one way off this roof. Hmm? You look really confused. Maybe it's roofies. Maybe that's why you're on a roof."

_What on earth is he talking about?_

His tattoo shifts and swirls. One of the 7s moves to the left shoulder blade. Both smears of black expand, darken. They now look like wings.

As I look on in horror and fascination, I now understand how Gory's going to escape the roof. The black tattoos are now three-dimensional, arcing back and out of his back. The wings widen until their span is many times wider than Gory is tall. They glisten and turn grey. The wings shimmer in the myriad colors projected on them.

_Are those… hypodermic syringes?_

Indeed, they are. The wings appear to consist of syringes. The 'feathers' are composed of needles, wicked sharp and shiny.

Gory climbs on the railing. His head turns. His face glows.

"I'll be seeing you around, Veronica."

The wings beat once. Gory's gone.

_If he can do it, so can I. It's lonely up here. No one's around. _

I put one foot up on the railing.

_Maybe if I try hard enough, maybe if I concentrate, I'll grow wings and escape this place too. _

Both my feet are up on the railing. I'm standing on the corner of the roof, where the railing is at right angles, so balancing is not a problem. I start to concentrate.

_Wings, wings, wings. _

Nothing happens. Drops of water start to hit the roof sporadically. The tempo gradually increases.

I throw the gun off the roof. It is swallowed by the murky blackness. I don't hear it hit the ground.

The rain is getting heavier. A metallic odor fills my nostrils and I gag.

I turn my head. Rainwater is gathering in puddles on the roof. The puddles look a little _off_ in the unnatural lighting.

I wipe my wet hair off my face. Something black stains my hands.

_It's blood. _

I leap off the railings, back on the roof. I duck under a piece of shelter, a water tank. I search my pockets frantically. I find a towel. I clean my hands on it. Bloody handprints mar the otherwise white towel. I clean my left hand. I clean my right hand. My left hand is bloody again. I clean my left hand. My right hand is bloody again. I clean my right hand. My left hand is bloody again. I clean my left hand…

The towel is saturated with blood. I toss the towel on the floor with a cry of annoyance. It slaps the ground, making a sound like a wet rope. Outside the shelter, the rain gets heavier and heavier. The puddles expand and merge. The roof is going to be flooded in time.

I sit down and hug my knees. I bury my face in my knees and rock from left to right. The level of blood is about half an inch, rising slowly but surely. The rain shows no sign of stopping.

_And my hands are full of blood. _

**Saturday morning, Veronica**

I wake up clawing for my throat. The last thing I remember is a dark rooftop. It was raining blood. The rain didn't stop. I tried jumping off the roof but the railings suddenly became too high and slippery to climb. The roof flooded. I had to tread water… tread blood… to survive.

When I look down, I still see blood on my hands.

I rush for the toilet. I lather my hands with excessive amounts of soap and hand wash. I spend the next half hour scrubbing, cleaning, soaping, drying my hands, and then repeating the procedure over and over. I clean under my nails, between the fingers, in every wrinkle.

_Falling asleep was a bad idea. But caffeine and adrenaline can only keep you awake for so long. _

Once I have calmed down, I fix myself a quick breakfast. Toast and coffee for me, biscuits for Backup, then I'm off to Mars Investigations. I have to put the last bits of spit and polish on the 'proposal' I'm going to present to Jake Kane tonight. I have to make it compelling. He will not decline. He cannot decline. My conscience berates me for stooping so low, but I ignore it. Family comes first, after all.

The first email I see when I log on is from Wallace. He's having a blast in Africa doing his stint under Invisible Children, ever since he left a week ago. He's attached some pictures of him and his colleagues pitching tents, digging wells, distributing food. He looks happy, content, fulfilled. I'm happy for him.

Everyone's leaving Neptune this summer. Wallace is in Africa. Dad's in Sacramento. Mac's leaving next Wednesday for San Francisco to visit Max. Piz is in New York, interning for Pitchfork Radio, Parker is ignoring my existence, and Weevil… Let's just say Weevil's seemed to have run into a pipeline of cash. He's brought his nieces and nephews to Las Vegas for a long awaited holiday. Logan is…

_Gotta count on yourself, Veronica. Your actions have consequences. Life's a bitch. That hole you dug for yourself? Not gonna fill itself. And no one's going to pull you out of it. That is the stark reality of life. _

As I work through the client list, I also call some contacts, and do some more research. Meanwhile, I find myself wondering idly about what coffee I'm going to brew for tonight.

_Jake Kane. You wish to rip away the only family I have left? To submit him to public ridicule and disgrace? Well, just two words for you, Jake Kane: Game on. _

**The Kane estate, 10pm**

I settle for Blue Mountain with vanilla extract. I sense Kyle's excitement as I help him refill his mug. His table is spotless except for something that looks like a chocolate chip right in front of him. The guardhouse is a new fixture. It actually looks like an organic extension of the driveway wall.

_Money talks. Especially when you need things constructed in a hurry. _

It's good to see Kyle's familiar face. This way, I don't need to act like an airhead who's clueless about my message's contents in order to get under his guard. I just need to brew some coffee. I know I'm good at doing both acting and brewing. It just that brewing coffee? That has the fringe benefit of keeping me awake as well.

I leave Kyle to enjoy his coffee as I approach the front door. Clarence Wiedman opens it for me. He looks dapper in a bespoke suit and tie. A bowler hat is perched on top of his head, above the frown currently on his forehead.

"Ms Mars. What's your business here today?"

"Clarence Wiedman. Don't you know it's bad luck to wear a hat indoors?"

"Again with the insults, Ms Mars. Mr Kane is a busy man."

"At least I've come at an earlier time. I have a proposition for Jake Kane. It won't take long. Jake can go back to exploiting the lower classes when I'm done."

"Fair enough. This has got to stop. Mr Kane is getting more and more irrational with regards to you and your father. It's just a matter of time before he does something all of us will regret."

"You won't see me after today. Tomorrow, I'll be out of your hair."

His frown deepens. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned his hair. He leads me past the pictures of Lily and Duncan and into the familiar study.

The study is almost the same as it was during my last visit. The vase of lilies is still near the window. The ornamental cactus on the desk, however, is missing.

"What happened to the cactus?"

"Someone poured coffee into the pot. The cactus did not survive."

If looks could kill, I'd be a smoking puddle on the floor.

"Oh."

Clarence Wiedman leaves to get Jake Kane. He doesn't offer me a drink. No matter, I can drink from my Thermos. And after what I did to the cactus, I don't expect him to.

Jake Kane comes into the study five minutes later. He's wearing a bathrobe. He's obviously getting ready for bed. Well, time and tide and Veronica wait for no man. Not even Jake Kane.

"I suppose you're here concerning your father."

He doesn't even greet me.

"What's going on, Jake? Haven't I already proven over my last visit that I can discredit, destroy and humiliate you and the rest of the Castle?"

"Don't you know that I'm pretty handy with computers? The past three weeks, I've been covering those paper trails. Buying silence. Causing random system crashes in record servers. The contents of the hidden folder are now inconsequential. The videos? We'll just hire the priciest lawyers we can find to force a reasonable doubt in any trial that may result from the disclosure of the videos. We'll pay off judges. Juries. We base ourselves in Neptune for a reason."

Indeed. Neptune is a fine piece of wooden furniture. Eaten and rotten by the termites called corruption. Rotten till only the paint, the varnish, the glamor that is slathered on in thick layers on its surface, is the only thing keeping Neptune together. I'm seeing the need for my trump card more and more.

"Me testifying against your father? That's just to get back at you for the trouble you've caused me. Now you have nothing. You have no leverage. And once Keith is convicted and jailed, it'll be your turn. You won't be able to find a job, much less make a living in America once I'm through with you."

I point at my face.

"You see this face? This is my "I'm scared shitless" face. Now this is what is going to happen. You are going to make all the charges against my father and I disappear. You are not going to press charges against us for anything we've done in the past. You do this, and I only release the hidden folder. You _did _say it was useless."

Jake Kane makes as if to start talking, but I cut in. Here it goes, Jake Kane. Time for my ace in the hole.

"You want to get personal with me? Fine. You want to attack my only remaining family member in my life? Fine. Be prepared for the consequences."

I open my Dunkin' Donuts folder. I pour the contents out on the desk. Photos, data sheets, maps spill out.

"Duncan Henrikson. Father of Lily Henrikson. Address 140 Hepburn Avenue, Marangaroo, Perth. Lily studies at the St James Kindergarten near their house. Mr Henrikson keeps to himself; all indicators point to him being a devoted father. Their real names? I bet you can guess."

Jake Kane's face turns pale. Clarence Wiedman leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear.

"Stop, Veronica. You don't know what you're doing."

I ignore him and continue.

"You know, after that farce last year where Aaron was acquitted of murder and attempted murder? I'm pretty sure the evidence he got planted makes Duncan a key suspect in Lily's murder. Duncan's also still wanted for the kidnapping of Lily. Do you really want me to go to the FBI with this information? As I know, Australia has an extradition treaty with America. And I'm pretty sure I can get immunity from prosecution if I provide the information. "

Jake Kane is trying his very best to sink into his chair. He's much too big for that to happen. Me? I'd do it easily.

"So here's what's going to happen, Jake. Drop the case against my father. If you do that, not only will I leave Duncan and Lily alone so you can visit them every year – yes, I know you do that – I'll never bother you again. I'll be out of your life forever. Unless, of course, the Castle does something to piss me off again."

"I'll drop the charges." Jake Kane's voice is soft.

"Good."

"I'll only be able to do that in two months' time when I'm due to testify."

"That's good enough. And don't even think of hiding Duncan and Lily. Duncan trusts me with his life and that of his daughter's. He will trust and obey me even if I told him to turn himself in to the police."

"Get out. GET OUT!"

Jake Kane is furious. I've backed him into a corner, covered all contingencies, attacked him personally and he doesn't like it. Not one bit. I don't like doing it either. I rise from the chair. Clarence Wiedman already has the door open. He accompanies me down the hallways, past the creepy portraits, and to the front door.

"Ms Mars. Veronica. I hope for your sake that this is the last time you come here with a 'request' of this nature. Mr Kane's not accustomed to being strong-armed. People in his line of business usually defer to physical stature. I respect your skills and understand your conviction. That's why I do not relish the thought of Mr Kane asking me to take care of you, if you know what I mean. He has already come close to doing so in the past."

My mouth is dry. I try to swallow but fail. _Had I really come that close to dying?_

"Please leave. And I beg you, for all our sakes, don't ever come back."

The door slams shut.

I turn and walk briskly toward the entrance to the estate. The grounds seem fraught with dangers. Every shadow is a sniper. Every rustle of grass is a potential assailant seeking to ambush me. Every uneven rock I step on a pressure activated mine.

I pass the guard house. Kyle waves from behind the glass partition. I gamely put on a smile and wave back. I refill his now-empty coffee mug, casually asking if anyone has been near my car when I was inside. I tell him that my car has been vandalised before. He says that no one has touched my car. I thank him and leave.

It's not much better outside. Is the roughness around the keyhole on my car door a sign of forced entry? Did I leave the steering wheel at the 9 o'clock position? Was the pen on my back seat pointing backwards or forwards?

_Gosh, Veronica. Stop being paranoid. _

I have to check. I pop my hood. I shine a torch around my engine. Nothing out of the ordinary is there. No out of place wires, no surreptitiously placed blocks of C4…I close the hood with a sigh. Clarence Wiedman was undoubtedly advising me with the best of intentions, but I've the feeling that after tonight, I'd be looking over my shoulders for many more weeks to come.

I climb into the driver seat. I hold my breath. _Here goes._ I twist the key in the ignition. The car starts. I breathe a sigh of relief. I pull out and drive home.

I don't think of what I just did, threatening a man's family to protect mine. I can't risk breaking down again. I still have a lot of work to do to deal with my past mistakes. Namely, the Sorokin family.

I drive off into the night.

**Kyle Edwards**

I see Veronica walking briskly out of the house. _She must be in a hurry for her next job. _I see her Thermos in her hand and my mouth waters. I down the rest of the coffee and moan as the taste takes me places totally at odds with my current situation. _Heaven._ I give her a wave. She smiles and returns it. My heart rate rises. I give her a sheepish smile and hold my mug in the air. She comes over and refills my mug with the delicious liquid. I'm about to ask her what coffee it is when she asks me a very strange question.

"Say, Kyle, I'm just wondering if you've seen anyone loitering around my car while I was inside? It's nothing, it's just that someone has been vandalising my car. You may have caught him in the act."

I point at the security camera screen.

"Didn't see anything from here. By the way…"

"Great! Thanks."

She hurries away. Oh well.

I can't help but notice Veronica walking around her car, scrutinising it. My eyebrows disappear into my hairline as she pops the hood.

_Vandals don't steal engine parts. And I've been watching the camera feed all along. There's nothing much to do here anyways. _

She closes the hood, gets in and drives off.

That's it. I'm decided. The next time she returns, I'd have perfected the fine art of brewing coffee. She's shown me hers, I'll show her mine. Maybe I'll get lucky and get to know her a bit more. Maybe we can see Star Wars together or something.

The first task at hand: replicating the ambrosia in my mug. My mind wonders as I plan flavour combinations.

_I hear the best coffee is made from the droppings of civet cats. I wonder what my dog can produce?_

_The sky will weep for whomsoever drinks Kyle's coffee._

**A/N:** Please review!


	7. Chapter 7: Life is good

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N:** This chapter took a little longer to write as I had to find a way to bridge the events which I've put in the plot. I hope this bridges the events well enough. I'm also out of town on holiday so I'm typing on a netbook with a crappy keyboard. I miss home.

**A/N2: **I tried to be as detailed as possible about the Russian Orthodox confession, but most of the details I've used are from  . . I apologise to anyone who may be offended by the use of a sacrament in this fashion. No disrespect is intended.

**A/N3: **Thanks for the kind reviews and subs! You guys have been extremely encouraging and motivating. Also, please try to leave signed reviews so I can reply by PM! Thanks again!

_The sky will weep for whoever drinks Kyle's coffee. _

**FBI Field office, San Diego, undisclosed time, undisclosed location. **

It is raining when the mail comes in. The letter arrives in the mail. Just as before, this letter is short of a return address. Just as before, this letter is devoid if fingerprints and any discernable DNA. Just as before, this letter is sealed with double-side tape. Just as before, this particular letter was posted outside the Sac-and-Pac. The management has not followed the FBI's recommendations to install a security camera to cover the mailbox, as the FBI was not as kind as to provide the funds for one. Budget constraints and all. Just as before, this letter contains information concerning the Sorokin crime family, information which is of paramount interest to the Organised Crime Division.

"_To whom it may concern,_

_It has come to my attention that the Organised Crime Division has run into no small amount of trouble locating Lev and Boris Sorokin. It has also been clear that the Neptune Sheriff's department has been less than useful in the manhunt. To the unbiased observer, the solution to this problem would be clear: remove the current Sheriff from office, and start recall elections. Preferably in three months time. But this citizen digresses. _

_This citizen considers it the epitome of the fulfilment of ones civic duty to aid law enforcement in making the country a safer, cleaner place to live in. Thus, this citizen feels a tremendous sense of fulfilment in disclosing that Lev and Boris will soon be making their presences felt. _

_Regards,_

_A concerned citizen."_

The letter is moved up the chain of command. The modus operandi of the anonymous tipoff, together with the similarities between this letter and the one before leads the analysts to conclude that the same person has sent this letter. The same person whom has proven to be relatively trustworthy and a possessor of accurate and up-to-date information. The letter lands on the desk of Special-Agent-in-Charge Adrian Trent, the head agent of the Organised Crime Division for the San Diego Branch Office.

SAC Trent has had a good day. No one turned up late for work today. The coffee machine works. The air conditioning is working well enough to turn a desert to tundra. It's a busy day. Most of the agents are at work, following cases, in the field, liaising with police departments across the state… He has never liked slow days. Work keeps his agents sharp and focused. Constant work prevents the life of an FBI agent from getting boring. A bored agent tasked with the monitoring and eventual eradication of organised crime is a bad agent. SOC Trent has most of his agents on the Fighting Fitzpatricks. Somehow, in the past few weeks, the Fitzpatricks have become elusive. Trying to grab one is like trying to trap smoke in a sieve. Busts have failed to net even a single member. SOC Trent has most of his agents on the Fitzpatrick case. As it turns out, in the battle of the proverbs, 'too many cooks spoil the broth' has proven victorious over 'many hands make light work'. His men have next to nothing to show for their efforts and SOC Trent is quickly getting pissed off.

This is why when the mysterious informant sends another tell-all letter regarding another thorn in the department's side, the Sorokin crime family, he sits up and takes notice. And when the SOC takes notice, so does the rest of his department.

"Do we have anyone undercover in the Sorokin family?"

"Yes, sir. According to his file, he's quite high up in the organisation. However, he can't give us Lev and Boris. They're hidden even from many of their own men."

"I don't care. Get me his handler."

**One day ago**

**Veronica**

"Will the defendant please step forward?"

The voice booms in the enormous room.

I look around. There's no one next to me. I look down. I'm wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. Manacles surround my wrists and ankles. A chain loops around my waist. Four lengths of chain branch from the belt to each of the manacles. I hear a growl behind me. I turn, and see a guard wearing a brown uniform. His features are obscured by a blindfold which covers more than half his face. He brandishes a baton and shoves me forward. I stumble, the leg irons preventing me from regaining my balance. I sprawl on the floor.

_It's me. I'm the defendant. They've got me. I was careless. _

I look up. A judge's panel is in front of me. On the left is a jury box. On the right, a court reporter and the bailiff look down at me with scorn and resentment.

The judge's panel towers over me, rising up into the sky. It is so tall that the panel appear to curve toward me as my eyes travel higher. It is so tall that the judge's face is in the clouds.

The jury box is filled with familiar faces. Aaron Echolls. Cassidy Casablancas. Jake Kane. Woody Goodman. Celeste Kane. Mercer Hayes. Liam Fitzpatrick. All of them point and laugh at my clumsiness.

The court reporter sits in the shadows. His large spectacles are the only part of him which is visible, reflecting the glare of the lights far, far above. The reflection is broken by cracks which spider-web across their surface. It's almost as if they were made of shattered glass fragments hastily glued back together. His fingers move across the typewriter keyboard in a blur. The sound of the keys being pressed is akin to a machine gun, albeit one that will never run out of ammunition.

_They are discussing my transgressions. All the things which could possibly be used against me, it's all being recorded in that typewriter. How could they know about those things? How can I face the world again when this is over? If this is over?_

I struggle to my feet. The rapidly shortening chains make it difficult to do so, but somehow I manage. The least I can do is to look defiantly into the face of adversity. The foreman steps forward with a sheet of paper in his hand. He steps into a spotlight.

_Gory. _

His face is radiant. Light spills out of his eyes, flashing when he blinks, and his mouth, flashing when he talks. His gaze pins me to the floor. I'm illuminated as if by twin spotlights. The temperature rises. Smoke starts to rise from my jumpsuit. The sweat I've generated from my struggles against my restraints starts to dry out. It's quickly becoming unbearable.

He speaks. It is a chorus of myriad voices.

"On the count of murder of the first degree of Mr Gorya Sorokin, we find the defendant, Ms Veronica Mars, guilty."

The room fills with jubilant cheers. The people in the jury box hug each other and give each other high-fives and fist bumps. Applause sounds from behind me, together lots of booing.

It's getting really hot now. My skin is papery dry. My jumpsuit is starting to blacken and char. The manacles are starting to glow a dull red color.

The judge slams his gavel twice. The room shakes with the sound. The cheering gradually stops. Silence reigns.

"On account of the guilty verdict, I hereby sentence the defendant, Veronica Mars, to death! The sentence shall be carried out immediately."

He doesn't use his gavel to interrupt the cheering which follows that statement.

I try to protest. I try to demand an appeal. Gory still stares at me. The light blinds me; I'm unable to look him in the eye. I'm distracted as my smouldering jumpsuit catches fire. I bat frantically at the dancing flames, trying to put them out. I spot a blanket lying on a nearby chair. I leap for it, but I find myself held in a painful headlock, courtesy of the guard behind me.

"The prisoner shall not escape." He hisses.

The fire spreads. It destroys my jumpsuit, but leaves the guard completely unscathed. I'm stark naked, exposed to the crowd. They laugh and jeer as the guards grab my arms and drag me away. My face burns as I try to hide from their gazes. I close my eyes in shame.

Not before I see Dad, Logan, Duncan, Lily, Meg, Piz, Wallace and Weevil in the crowd. A gamut of emotions is spread across their faces. Disgust, pity, sorrow, accusation, rage, disappointment. Logan's eyes are downcast. He doesn't look at me, and something deep inside me breaks. Dad is yelling something at me, his face twisted in anger, tears running down his cheeks.

His words are swallowed up by the rowdy crowd.

My toes drag on the floor. The guards have me firmly by each arm; my shoulders scream for relief as they force them to support my entire body weight, and the handcuffs bite into the skin of my wrists, drawing blood. The blood drips onto the floor and is smeared into lines by my toes.

A guillotine stands before me. As tall as it is, it's only half as tall as the judge's panel. Blood from hundreds of murderers it has claimed before me stains its wood. The slanted blade gleams in the room's light.

Oddly enough, in contrast to the gore on the frame, the blade is clean. Surgical, even. The shiny surface reflects my face. I'm gaunt, scrawny and pale. I look as if the last vestiges of hope and life have been taken from me.

I can imagine the executioner polishing, oiling and sharpening it to perfection before presenting to court today.

Everything's moving so fast. I can't even remember why I'm here anymore. I try to think past the fog in my mind.

_Who was I supposed to have murdered? And who was the foreman? What's missing from the picture?_

I'm slammed onto the ground. My head is forced downward, my neck into the lunette. All I can see is a bag in front of me, opened. The interior is dark; the lip of the bag is lined with teeth.

I know what's wrong with the picture. I open my mouth and start to speak.

I'm interrupted for the last time. The cheers are ear-splitting. Something cool licks me around the neck. I feel my head start to fall; my view tumbles. The bag snarls.

There is no pain.

There is only darkness.

"Woof!"

I shake myself. Backup's licking me on the neck. He must have sensed my distress and tried to wake me.

I sit up and realise I'm sleeping in a pool of sunlight. I must have left the curtains open and overslept enough for there to be daylight. I'm sweating.

_Damn, these nightmares are becoming quite the problem. _

I start the kettle. I need some coffee to completely awaken. While waiting for the water to boil, I open the door and take in the morning newspaper.

Nothing unexpected has happened in the past day. Crime rates are rising – who knew? The rich in Neptune are getting richer – who cares? I flip past a small article with the headline "Security guard drinks contaminated coffee: admitted to UCSD Medical Centre for food poisoning"…

_Wait… what's this? Next to the obituary of one Charles Rock is an obituary for Gorya Sorokin. On the other side, there is a public service announcement on the dangers of mixing drugs and alcohol. This is in response to a death in Hearst College due to heroin overdosing combined with alcohol. Take home message? Don't do drugs. Use clean needles if you do. Brush and floss everyday for clean and healthy teeth and gums. _

_Well, at the very least, I know I've kept my trail clean. The Neptune police, bumbling fools that they are, have classified Gory's death as misadventure. Now I also know that Gory's body has been discovered. I can assume that his father has learnt of his death. Somehow, this can be turned into something useful. _

I never expected that dealing with your own mistakes, reversing the consequences, and keeping your loved ones safe would be so hard. I've successfully taken care of Dad's legal issues, by threatening to destroy Duncan's life. The next thing on the agenda would be to remove the Russian mafia's power; the power, manpower and influence which made it possible for Gory Sorokin to kill Logan.

The only way I can stay sane, the only way I can prevent myself from going mad with guilt and self-loathing, is to strategise. The most efficient way to cripple, and hopefully destroy, the Russia mob in California is to cut it off at the head. Lev and Boris Sorokin need to be taken out of the picture.

After the unpleasant business with Jake Kane half a week ago, I don't feel like hanging someone else's life on the line on my quest for vengeance. I don't think I'm wired that way. Favors are one thing to expect from others; sacrifices are another.

I decide to sacrifice something else. First, I send an anonymous letter to the FBI branch office in San Diego. Just as before, I handle the letter with gloves. I seal it with double-sided tape instead of licking it. I post it outside the Sack-n-Pac, which still doesn't have a security camera covering it.

The next part requires significantly more derring-do and serendipity. I send more anonymous letters to Eastern Orthodox churches in San Diego. I know members of the Russian mob worship there. Strangely, for people who murder, smuggle and enslave for a living, they're actually pretty religious. They are much simpler and shorter than the ones I've sent to the FBI.

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_Gorya's death was not an accident. Vicky Maine killed him and made it look that way. _

I leave it unsigned. There are no Vicky Maines in San Diego or Balboa County.

_It won't do for some innocent person to be attacked by a group of Russian thugs because of my randomly generated name. No one is going to be hurt by my mistakes ever again, if I can help it. _

I will become Vicky Maine. I'll meet with the Russian mob. I'll drag Lev and Boris Sorokin out of hiding. The possible murderer of the son of one and the nephew of the other? They wouldn't miss the chance to see her for anything. They might even want to take a little revenge of their own. If I die in their hands? So be it. As my dreams have shown me, death is the only way I'll be able to assuage my guilt. Just as long as the Organised Crime Division isn't a total bunch of idiots and takes both Lev and Boris Sorokin down. I can live with that.

_And if I fail, if I underestimate the competence of the FBI, a pseudonym ensures no one close to me will be killed in reprisal. _

I prepare, and steel myself for what's likely to be my last ever operation.

_Now, what does one wear to confession?_

**San Diego, Friday**

**Veronica**

The St. Barlaam of Kiev Russian Orthodox Church is a small church in a seedy suburb of San Diego. It's surrounded by myriad strip clubs, bars, convenience stores, and nightclubs. The sombre lighting of the church is disrupted by the neon lights reflecting off its whitewashed façade. Heavily tattooed men with Slavic features loiter around the entrance, smoking, drinking and joking loudly. The graffiti adorning every surface of the street, including storefronts and streetlamps, stops at the borders of the church, as if it is a beacon of cleanliness. A small white sign hanging underneath the church name proudly declares: "American also spoken".

_This must be a good place to start. At least I'll be able to be understood, if only a marginally. _

I've parked in a long-term car park in downtown San Diego. I've left Backup in the care of Mandy. I've hidden my ID, most of my cash and all my valuables inside my car. It's almost 8pm as I reach the St. Barlaam of Kiev, having had to take public transportation.

_I'll just have to stow my cell with my parking ticket. That way, if anything goes wrong, Dad'll be able to trace my cell, find the ticket and locate my car. And with my car, he'll find the note I left for him. The note which contains all the apologies and all the confessions which I'll never be able to tell him face-to-face. _

I'm busy circumventing a puddle in a pothole in the middle of the pedestrian walkway when my cell rings. I wince as the cold water soaks through my old sneakers and into my socks. I answer.

"Hi, honey, how was your day?"

"Oh, just the usual: murder, cover-ups, dicing with death. But don't worry, Dad, you're sure to like these organised crime guys."

_What the fuck did I just say?_

"That's my girl. I'm just calling to check in on you. Sacramento's beautiful at this time of year. Wish you were here."

_That was close. Too close. _

"Sure, Dad. You're going to be great in court, you know that? And no matter what, I'll always love you."

"I know. See you soon, honey. And when you go after accused murderers, you always have a backup plan."

He hangs up.

_I didn't _almost_ slip up. I _did _slip up. It's only due to my tendency to joke with Dad that he hasn't gone all Inquisition-like on me. _

I shudder and keep my phone. I cannot make any more mistakes from this moment on. The fate of the people I love, as well as the success of this operation, depends on how well I hold myself together.

I double back when I pass a row of lockers. I choose a locker in the middle of the middle row, as non-descript as possible. I place my car park ticket inside. I connect an external battery charger to my cell. I switch the phone to silent. I put both inside the locker, weighing down the flimsy parking ticket. The external battery charger should keep the cell operational for a few more days. If the phone dies, Dad will still be able to track my car down. There were security cameras covering the car park entrances. My license plate has definitely been captured.

I'm now unencumbered by anything which could link me back to my true identity. As I leave the locker area, throwing the locker key into a nearby trash can, I catch a glance of my reflection in the reflective sides of a nearby escalator.

I've cut my hair short again. I've dyed it dark brown. The hairstylist promised that the dye would come off in twenty washes, quicker if I use a special chemical. I've liberally applied lipstick and eyeliner. I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans which are a few sizes too large for me. I couldn't find clothes that fit me at the thrift store. A cloth belt prevents my jeans from slipping down my waist. I no longer look like Veronica Mars.

I'd probably even fool myself.

_My name is Vicky Maine. _

The interior of the St. Barlaam of Kiev is small but tidy. Icons hang from the clean walls and the hint of incense permeates through the still air.

I've timed my visit well. I've arrived at the tail end of the confessional. The line between the pews is short, about five people. At the head of the queue, an old man has his face buried inside a colourful cloth box. A colourful stole covers his head. A young, clean-shaven priest stands next to him, chanting a psalm of some sort. Behind the old man, in the queue, is an elderly Russian woman, her head in a shawl. She is followed by a young man. His hands are in his pockets and he's shifting nervously. I can see the beginning of a tattoo under his collar. The older man in front of me is large, heavily muscled, and tall. He's completely bald. Tattoos adorn his bare arms. He is as still as a viper, poised to strike, totally in contrast to the jumpier, younger man in front of him in the queue.

The priest says something in Russian. With the emphasis he places on the last words, I infer that he is saying the old man's name. _Excellent. _

The line rapidly shortens. From the research I've done about the Russian Orthodox faith, I've learnt that the worshipper is supposed to place his head under the stole, and utter their confession. The chanting of the priest is supposed to make it private.

_Now that won't work for me._

I'm the last in the queue. The bald man before me removes his head from the stole and leaves the sanctuary. From the priest's proclamation, his name is Igor.

I'm next. The priest says something in what I assume is Russian.

"Sorry, do you speak English?" I'm tempted to say "Vy go-vo-reet-ye po-ang-liy-skee?" but I hold my tongue.

"How may I address you?" His English is perfectly functional, only slightly accented.

"I'm Vicky Maine." His eyes widen a little in surprise.

"Vicky, do you know how confession is conducted in this church?"

"I've seen what the people before me have done. I think I should be able to manage."

I slip my head under the stole. I'm confronted with an open Bible and a cross.

_If God does exist, I really hope he won't mind me lying to the priest. There are some things which I'm not ready to tell _anyone_ about. Not yet anyway. _

"Erm… What do I do?"

"Just confess, Vicky. If you feel more comfortable I can give counsel instead of chanting the Psalms. You may be more used to this style of confession."

"I caused the death of a man. He was drunk and high on heroin. He was just lying on his bed. I could have saved him by calling an ambulance. But I thought he would be all right. I thought he would survive the night."

I allow my voice to break.

"I left him to die."

I start to sob. It's difficult. Guilt tears me up on the inside about what I have done to Gory; however, no matter how much I try to, I cannot shed a tear for him. The priest answers.

"Vicky. Honestly, in your situation, nine out of ten people would have done what you did. I know that calling for help, especially for trouble with drugs, is extremely hard to do. But your feeling guilt over your inaction and you being here today for your confession tells me that you have a conscience, that not all is lost within you. You still have compassion, and no matter what you have done, God will forgive."

He continues.

"The handmaiden of God, Vicky Maine."

I remove my head from the stole and give a small smile to the priest. Despite the severely edited sequence of events which I've given him, his reasoning and absolution gives me a sense of peace.

_I have a conscience. I have compassion. Not all is lost. _

It's exactly what I need. I needed to know that all my struggles are for something, results or no.

I thank the priest for his time. I leave the St Barlaam of Kiev. The wooden doors slam shut behind me with a finality which echoes off the opposite storefront like a gunshot. The thugs loitering outside the church leer at me but thankfully keep their distance. I walk off in the opposite direction from the lockers.

I spot my tail in about ten minutes.

It's the two people who were in front of me in the confession queue. They're in an old, beat up pickup truck. It has seen better days, much like the rest of the suburb. They're looking at me, staring intently.

Time to make it look realistic.

I turn off the main road into an alley.

They follow.

**Five minutes ago**

Igor hates Ivan. The young punk thinks he's such a big shot, getting a little promotion in the ranks. From gun-running to hits. But Ivan has a lot to learn. Strategy. Patience. Finesse. He's too jumpy, too flashy. On hits he would threaten and wave his weapon around. Igor will just shoot without warning. Meaningless theatrics will only result in a warning to the victim and a lower probability of a kill.

Igor's about to go off to his favourite bar when Nikolai, the priest, catches him before he enters his pickup.

"Igor! There's something that just happened. A girl called Vicky Maine just did a confession with me. Do you remember the girl behind you?"

"Short, brown hair, cute? Yeah I remember."

Igor motions to Ivan to get into his pickup. He does so with minimal grumbling, which Igor is grateful for. Igor himself gets behind the wheel and starts the engine. The pickup starts with no small amount of sputtering. Money has been short these days, and vehicle maintenance is not very high on Igor's list of priorities.

"Igor, from what she told me, I'm quite sure she didn't have anything to do with what Lev and Boris are trying to find her for."

"Not my problem, Nikolai. What the boss wants, the boss gets."

Igor pulls out of the lot, leaving Nikolai in the dust, looking on in despair.

"Ivan! We're doing a grab today. Prepare the cloth."

"And I thought we would be doing _something_ fun."

"Shut the fuck up. Not all work is killing."

Ivan doesn't answer as he wets a towel with chloroform. He rolls the window down to get rid of the fumes.

Igor spots a short figure turning into a nearby alley. He recognises Vicky from the sanctuary. He follows.

Vicky has a twenty yards head start. Igor keeps his distance. No use alarming the prey.

Bollards prevent him from following any further.

"Fuck! Ivan! Go!"

Ivan exits the vehicle. He walks briskly toward Vicky, damp cloth in hand.

She doesn't seem to notice him. Her head is bowed, her hands in her pockets.

Ivan is close now. He grabs Vicky around the neck. He chokes her and shows her the cloth. Her legs flail in the air as he lifts her up.

He lets go and rolls on the floor, limbs twitching. Igor's eyes narrow in confusion and then widen in comprehension as he sees a taser in Vicky's hand.

_Fucking idiot. _

Vicky's running now. Igor slides his trusty sawn-off shotgun out from his glove compartment. He usually uses it for hits but since Vicky's about fifty yards away now, it probably won't kill her.

He aims low. He tries to aim for her legs. He doesn't care if the spread of the shot wings Ivan. He's screwed up once too many times today.

BANG!

She goes down; the soil around her left leg dotted with small puffs of dust as the small lead pellets impact the dry floor.

Igor drops the shotgun on the pickup's floor. He sprints over to Vicky, nicking the cloth Ivan dropped on the way. She's already struggling to get up. Igor doesn't waste time on intimidation. He just clamps the cloth down on her nose and mouth. He spots the taser on the floor and ignores it.

She stops struggling after about half a minute.

Igor lets her fall on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. He's not built for sprints; the last time he had to chase anyone down was half a decade ago. He searches the ground for anything he might have missed. He keeps the chloroform soaked rag and Vicky's taser. He's always wanted one, but never saw the necessity nor had the opportunity to test its efficacy.

"Fucking bitch! This'll show you!"

Ivan is treating the fallen girl like a soccer ball. He's kicking her body hard. Igor winces as Ivan's instep connects with Vicky's abdomen, the momentum rolling her body about.

"Ivan, stop now!"

Ivan ignores him. He gives Vicky, now on her back, a sharp kick in the ribs. A sickening crack can be heard from Igor's position. His eyes narrow. Lev and Boris want Vicky brought to them alive, not half or wholly dead. And from what he knows about their interrogation methods, she's going to need to be as healthy as possible.

He sticks the taser in Ivan's back as he's winding up for a stomp. He pulls the trigger. Ivan collapses instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut.

_Excellent. Maybe I should get one of my own. _

Igor drapes the unconscious Vicky over his broad shoulders. He grabs Ivan by the hair and drags him. He gets them to the pickup without much fuss though Ivan is starting to stir. Vicky goes into the pickup bed; a tarpaulin is thrown over her to hide her from prying eyes. Ivan is woken with a few tight slaps and curses. He goes into the passenger seat. Igor will have words with him later about his conduct this evening.

The pickup takes three tries to start. There's no hurry. Gunshots are as common as rats around here, and the alleys crawl with vermin. No police in their right mind will show in this neighbourhood.

_When I deliver Vicky, her bounty's going to give the ride a tune-up. It's been far too long. Then maybe some drinks at the bar, maybe a hooker or two, maybe even a taser. _

_Life is good. _

**A/N: ** Please review!


	8. Chapter 8: Fortune favors the bold

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: M for language, disturbing imagery, graphic violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N:** This chapter is rated M for graphic violence. Be warned.

**A/N2:** This chapter was, understandably, hard to write. Torture is never fun and I don't condone it under any circumstance. I have the Sorokins water board Veronica for information just to show how bad it can be; and how strange it is that the USA used to deny it was torture. Please do tell me if I've gone too far or been too graphic or too lengthy.

**A/N3: **The reveal in this chapter has been hinted for the past few chapters, and a few people have guessed what it is. Congratulations! However, this is Neptune, nothing ever happens without a reason. And I hope I'm able to make you keep guessing as to what is really happening. Who's the FBI mole in the Sorokin family?

**A/N4: **And last, thanks for all the subs.

**Veronica**

_Life is good. _

Life's a beach, actually. My toes dig into warm sand. The crashing of waves against the shore fills my ears. The sky's a bright baby blue. The sun hangs high in the sky. The sky is clear apart from a few cottony clouds high above. Gulls drift lazily in the sea breeze, calling to each other. A few score beachgoers are having fun on the beach. Some are tossing a Frisbee to each other. One's flying a remote controlled plane. Yet another group is swimming in the crystal clear ocean. Someone's playing catch with a black Labrador. Windsurfers cavort in the waves offshore.

_This is the life. _

I sigh as the wash trickles over my toes. It's incredibly relaxing to be able to be alone on the beach, without a care in the world, walking through the wash. The cool water provides a soothing contrast to the warm sand.

I kick a small rock. It flies out to the ocean. It spins, skipping off the water surface five times before it plops into the water. The ripples dissipate almost instantly, swallowed up by the waves coming inshore.

"So, I guess we broke up, huh?"

I turn. It's Logan. He doesn't look happy.

_Why isn't Logan happy? It's a perfect summer's day at the beach. The sun's great, the surf's up, everyone's happy. What am I forgetting?_

"What's the matter, Logan? Did I do something?"

"Seriously? You don't know? You suffering from short term memory loss or something?"

"What did I do?"

"You're a heartless bitch, you know that? You told the police my alibi for Lily's murder wasn't valid, had me arrested, does that ring any bells?"

_That's right. Beav... Cassidy told me that Logan returned to Neptune from Mexico. I told Dad. He told the Sheriff's department. Why am I only remembering this now?_

I start to walk to the water. I need the cool water on my feet to relax, help me think. The water line recedes as I go closer to it. I walk faster, I eventually start jogging. The water line retreats even further. Pretty soon the water line is hundreds of yards away. I give up.

"You know, Veronica, for the intelligent girl you are, you do tend to jump to hasty conclusions."

"Why would you hide the fact that you came back from Mexico early if you didn't kill Lily?"

Something strange is happening to the horizon.

"Have you even considered, for a second, that I realised that if that piece of information would be known to the police, I would be arrested? I chose to hide it because having an alibi is so much easier. If you want proof, I can tell you that Lily received a shot glass and a note from me."

Something really strange is happening to the horizon. The sky seems… shorter somehow. A warbling siren sounds in the air.

"Veronica Mars. Always jumping to conclusions. You don't always have the answers, you know."

I can see what's happening to the ocean. A tsunami is rising from the ocean, dwarfing any wave I've ever seen before. The small windsurfing boats are swallowed up by the wave's approach. I turn and run, but stop. There's no point trying to outrun such a monstrosity. Logan looks at me with sadness in his eyes.

"Even when you do have most of the answers, even if you have most of the pieces of the puzzle, you could be…"

The wave is near. The faces of those the wave has consumed appear on the wave's front, screaming their torment, baying for blood. I look around in desperation. Something floats a few score yards above me. _It's an angel_. His face is full of light. His wings beat in the still air. The sun glints off razor-sharp feathers. His face looks vaguely familiar. _Should I know this person?_

"Just."

I can see a shipwreck, a gargantuan oil tanker, through the wave. It's buffeted by the tsunami; it's flipping port over starboard over port, following the wave toward shore. The hull is ripped through in places; I can only catch the first four letters of its name. SORO? _Sorrow?_ The angel flies closer. I see his face more clearly now. He's smiling, even laughing.

"Plain."

The other people on the previously peaceful beach scream in terror as they see their death approaching. Some run. Some cower in fear. Others pray silently. The wave is very close now. The wave occupies the entirety of my peripheral vision. I raise my hands to the angel, wishing for him to take me away. He flies away. He doesn't look back.

"Wrong."

The wave hits.

Splash!

I start awake as a bucket of dirty water hits me full in the face. I take in my surroundings, squinting in the harsh fluorescent light.

I'm in a warehouse of some sort. Wooden crates are stacked to the walls. The room is lit with a single fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling about two storeys above. A powered winch occupies a corner of the room. The chain attaches to a pulley above my head, ending in a steel hook. It reminds me of a guillotine blade, hanging over my head.

I'm sitting on a wooden chair. I'm seated facing a shut door. My head is full of cotton wool; it's all fuzzy and I feel numb and limp. As time passes, I slowly regain sensation and movement in my limbs.

_What time is it now? Where am I?_

The last thing I remember is getting jumped in an alley near the St Barlaam of Kiev. I remember the searing pain of the shotgun pellets in my left leg which took me down. I remember the sickly smell of the cloth which knocked me out.

The drug is starting to wear off. Things are getting a bit sharper; my head is getting a little clearer. However, my left leg is starting to throb and my entire torso feels like one gigantic bruise. A stabbing pain radiates from my side when I inhale. My left jean leg is matted with dried blood.

_I must have broken something. Maybe cracked a rib. Ow. I'm not going to be doing any running anytime soon. Or deep breathing. _

A man stands in front of me. He's holding a bucket. He stands near a hose running from a water point on the wall. He's probably the one who woke me up. A bushy moustache and a full beard cover the lower half of his face. He wears his hair long. The hair is slicked back. The man's wearing a wife-beater which displays his heavily tattooed arms, and jeans. Work gloves cover his hands. The man is of average height, of medium build. He's lean and wiry, a contrast to many of the thugs I've seen around the St Barlaam. His face is weathered, and his eyes which are staring into mine, are ice cold. He's your quintessential average Joe. If you walked past him on the street on any given day, you won't spare him a second glance. But his stare… it holds a certain restrained violence, malevolence. It pins me in my seat. I don't even think of escape, even though I'm not restrained in any way. That gaze makes me think for a second: _am I in too deep this time?_

"Ms Maine. Good to see that you're awake."

His English is clipped; his words come out with a strange accent. The pail drops to the floor with a clatter. He shouts something out in Russian. Several voices respond.

My eyes move to the door as it opens. A few heavily tattooed men enter. The first stands guard next to the door. He seems nervous. His eyes twitch around, and he keeps consulting his watch. He has a matte black pistol out, at the ready. He steps on some old, discarded bubble wrap. It pops, startling him, and he quickly aims his gun at it. The second visitor guffaws in amusement, slapping his knees in laughter. The third merely stares at me, face flushed. He looks pretty angry.

"Don't mind Gustav. His itchy trigger finger has saved me more than once."

It's the second visitor who speaks. His grey hair is slicked back, held in place with shiny oil. It emphasizes his widow's peak.

"However, you should mind Pravda here."

He gesticulates toward the first man, the one with the cold stare. Pravda's back is turned to me. His shoulder blades are a mass of ink, text, pictures. He's sitting on a long, wooden bench, arranging something on a table.

"Pravda is one of my… associates, shall we say. He's very reliable in getting people to talk. I don't usually… consult him… is that the word? However, today is a special occasion. Today you're going to tell me why my brother over here," he points to the fourth man, "is now without a son."

Lev Sorokin. Boris Sorokin. My plan has worked. They're both here, in front of me. Hopefully the FBI has gotten my memo. Judging from the disrepair of the warehouse I'm in, and the sound of car engines outside the room, we're not in a safe house.

_Now to buy some time for the FBI to make their move. _

I keep my mouth shut and fold my arms in front of me. I wince as I move my ribs. They're not going to get anything out of me until the FBI shows up. Preferably with hundreds of agents. With guns. And air support.

Boris doesn't take my silence kindly. I feel my teeth cut the inside of my cheek as he slaps me. He leans into my face, bellowing. He reeks of vodka. He reminds me of Gory. Like father, like son.

"What the FUCK did you do to my son? Pravda! Do your fucking job."

"Da."

Pravda picks up the table and brings it into the light. On it lie the following objects: Pliers. Wire cutters. A soldering iron. A hammer. A blowtorch. And finally, nail clippers. My resolve starts to waver as I take in the implements on the table.

I can't do this anymore. I have to get out. My heart hammers in my chest as I rush for the door not ten yards away. I stumble as I place my weight on my left leg. I turn a scream into a grunt as something my side explodes in pain.

I don't make it past Pravda. He takes something familiar out from his pocket. _My taser. Oh crap. _Blue sparks arc between the electrodes. Behind him, standing between me and the door, Gustav looks at me with something akin to pity in his eyes. He checks his watch again. _What is he waiting for?_

Bzzt.

Agony. My chest tenses as the electric shock contracts every muscle in my body. I fall on the floor. The explosion of pain in my ribs becomes a white supernova which consumes my very being. I cannot even draw the breath to scream.

The white fades to blackness.

**FBI Field Office, San Diego**

"Sir? Nestor just called in. Lev and Boris Sorokin are currently present for the interrogation of a Jane Doe. Their present location is…"

SOC Trent's secretary rattles off a string of GPS coordinates. Trent smiles. He congratulates himself on his decision to trust the informant. He congratulates himself on having the foresight on placing an undercover officer inside the Sorokin family. He knows the night has just started.

"Get the Sheriff's department on the line."

Trent knows Lev and Boris aren't going to stay at the same place for long. They've successfully evaded capture for weeks because they're shrewd, or lucky. Time is of the essence. He needs to concentrate his manpower. He needs agents and officers who are trained in the use of less-than-lethal weaponry; he needs Lev and Boris alive. He needs air support and transport; the location where the targets are is a good hundred miles away.

He needs all this a half hour ago.

The Sheriff is on the phone. Trent gets to work.

**Abandoned Warehouse**

Pravda doesn't hate his interrogations subjects. Often, he finds that removing emotion from the equation is good both for his own well-being as well as the results of interrogations. Without emotions, he can work at a reproducible standard. His job is easier without emotions. If one is being questioned by someone who's just doing his job, not personally, one would find it harder to resist, no?

Oh, he does hate the messy parts of the job. The body disposal, the removal of teeth, fingers, tattoos… It has stopped turning his stomach years ago. All the sharp instruments, blunt instruments, electrical instruments on the metal table before today's unconscious subject define his craft. However, through experience and experimentation, he has discovered that the simplest of…techniques… are often the most effective. Techniques which do not leave any scars on the body can be repeated time and time again, testing the subject's will, until it breaks and the veritable wellspring of information within can be tapped.

Today's subject is a young girl, perhaps around eighteen. Her brown hair is matted with water. She lies supine on the concrete floor, not moving after the shock he had just administered. He lifts her up. Pravda is deceptively strong despite his slight build. Opponents who have underestimated him in the past seldom got to live to learn from their mistake. Lev and Boris sit on crates, watching.

_This should be quick. Men twice her size usually last barely fifteen minutes. _

He places her face up on the wooden bench and handcuffs her wrists together under the bench. Rope prevents her legs from moving or leaving the bench. Her face is relaxed, free of any care or worry.

_She won't have that expression for long. Why do people make my job so difficult? Why can't they just… talk?_

Pravda reaches for the smelling salts in his pocket.

**Veronica**

My nose burns.

I wake up. I'm tied down to the wooden bench I saw earlier. My hands are secured together under the bench, with the somewhat familiar feel of handcuffs around my wrists. I can't see my feet. I can't move them even if they weren't tied; the pain in my chest burns like a red hot poker thrust into my lungs. It hurts to breathe, or move.

Boris stands over me. His features are contorted with rage. I can deal with anger. Wrath drives many actions. Including some of mine.

"Now, you're going to tell me how and why you killed my son."

Fortune favors the bold. I keep my mouth shut. I turn my head as Boris spits. The wet spittle lands on my right cheek. He growls something in Russian.

I hate my position. I'm completely vulnerable. There's no way to defend myself. Boris is replaced by Pravda. He has a cloth in his hand. He's whistling a merry tune. I think its Jingle Bells.

Anger is easy to deal with. If someone's angry at you, it's easy to project your own anger back on him. Anger can fuel my resistance.

A person who doesn't hate you? Much more difficult.

The ice cold stare pins me to the bench more effectively than handcuffs or rope.

The ice cold stare is the last thing I see as the cloth covers my face. I can see the light on the ceiling through the gaps in the fibres. I see the cloth darken with fluid. Water flows into my nose. I try to turn my head but something holds my head in place by my hair. It is like a vice, hard and unyielding.

I can't decide which is worse, the all-consuming _need_ for air as the water floods my nostrils, or the all-consuming pain in my side which blanks my mind every time I choke or sputter.

_Which is worse? To breathe or not to breathe?_

_That is the question._

**Abandoned warehouse**

Something's wrong.

The girl has stopped struggling. It has been half an hour since he had started the interrogation. Pravda has had to check on the girl's vital signs more than once. A dead source cannot provide any information. Pravda has never had a subject expire under questioning before. Death after questioning is another matter. He doesn't intend to break his record today. He does it safely. He stops pouring the water over her face after about half a minute each time. He gives her a few seconds to recover, then resumes pouring again.

She doesn't talk. She does scream and plead a lot, however. His hand is getting a little tired from holding her head still. He'll need to switch hands soon. Boris and Lev are still sitting on the crates, quietly talking together. Gustav has left to take a phone call, from his wife or someone. There's no need for a bodyguard. The girl isn't going to escape.

Her heart is still beating. She's not breathing. He prods her hands with his boot. There's no response. The bloody hands swing with the movement, the skin on the wrists chafed by the handcuffs. Drops of blood on the floor below the bench form an intricate pattern.

"Bloody hell."

Pravda removes the cloth. Her face is relaxed. She is unconscious. Her lips are blue. He takes a deep breath. He pinches her nose, covers her mouth with his, and blows forcefully into it.

It takes five repetitions before the girl starts to choke and retch. Pravda moves away and watches the stream of water come out of her mouth. She takes deep breaths, wincing and crying.

Pravda frowns. He places a gentle hand on her side. She jerks away from his touch, but there's nowhere to run. Her side under her shirt is covered with a dark purple bruise. The swelling is warm to the touch. His hand lingers on the bruise.

"No… no."

Her eyes are wide with fear. She shakes her head.

His power over her is intoxicating. He hasn't had an attractive female… guest before. Possibilities fill his mind. He feels himself harden.

_No. Emotions have no place here. I'm a gentleman. I think I'm a gentleman. . _

"Good. You're back. Let us continue."

The sound of water filling the metal pail echoes through the warehouse. She starts to sob, the cries interspersed with wet, hacking coughs.

"No more. Please, no more."

Just as well. Pravda knows he cannot continue for the time being; she has almost died on him.

Lev and Boris come over.

"Are you ready to talk now?"

Her voice is soft, weak, broken.

"What do you… want me to say, huh? That I… killed Gory? That I overdosed him with heroin when he was too drunk to stand? Is that what you want me to say?"

"You bitch. How on earth did you take Gorya down? Even drunk he's more than a match for a twig like you."

Lev is doing the talking. Pravda interjects in Russian.

"Boss. She had this on her when she got grabbed. Took one of the guys out."

The taser snaps and sparkles as he holds it out and activates it.

"Why did you do it? Huh?"

Boris is screaming into her face. She doesn't respond. She's unconscious again.

"Boss. She won't survive any more waterboarding. These American torture techniques are useful but she has a rib injury. She can't breathe properly."

"How the fuck is that relevant?"

"If she dies, so do your answers. I have another technique. I'll try it after giving her a rest. I resume in an hour."

Boris backs down. Wise of him to listen to the specialist.

Pravda removes the girl from the bench. He relocks the handcuffs behind her back, and leaves her crumpled in the corner. She's still breathing.

An hour is quite some time. Enough time to do some preparation, smoke a few joints, maybe read the newspaper.

Pravda picks up the length of rope coiled up inside a crate. He starts twisting it into a noose.

_Emotions cannot get the better of me. Especially not today. Quell the flames of passion and replace it with an iceberg. The Titanic wasn't felled by fire. It fell to ice. _

_Fortune favors the cold. _

**Somewhere in the air**

The helicopter thunders through the air. SOC Trent sits in the co-pilot seat; his team occupies the passenger hold. They are all well-armed. In addition to their standard submachine guns and sidearm, they all carry a taser.

The team has just lifted off from the airbase. They will rendezvous with the San Diego police department on location.

"Remember, team, our priority targets are Lev and Boris Sorokin. Live capture is our top priority. Also, prepare for a possible hostage system."

A chorus of affirmatives fills his headset.

SOC Trent hasn't been out in the field in a while, but the excitement of the chase makes his heart beat faster, his blood pumping quicker through tired limbs. He feels a decade younger.

He doesn't go into the field often, but a bust of this size happening on his watch? He wouldn't miss it for the _world. _

_Fortune favors the old. _

**Veronica**

I'm surrounded by the people I love. Logan. Dad. Mum. Lily. Duncan. Wallace. Backup.

I'm in a desert. There's no moisture anywhere. The desert is bone dry, the sun overhead is warm and bright.

The sun grows brighter. It's almost blinding me. It's like a expanding sphere of pure whiteness. It glows, bright and inviting.

Logan takes me in his arms.

"You know, Veronica, people always say don't go into the light?"

His lips touch mine.

I've left heaven and am back in hell. The cuffs which I have strained against for what feels like hours still cut into my wrists. The sharp pain in my side is now a gnawing, intense pain which saps my strength and makes my coughing and retching a symphony of agony.

He's touching my side, lifting my shirt. His hand feels cool as he touches my bruised ribs. He leaves it there.

_What's he doing? Oh no. Nonono. Not again. Not here. _

My eyes move up from his hand. His erection is visible through his pants. His eyes are full of heat.

_No!_

"No…no…"

I hate how weak I sound.

The previous heat is gone from his eyes, leaving only ice beneath. I'm not sure which I prefer. All I know is that I'd rather be anywhere but here.

"Good. You're back. Let us continue."

He leaves and starts filling up the pail again.

I start to struggle as I feel the cold, clammy fingers of death encircling my neck again. I can feel the water gurgling, seeping, pouring, choking, smothering, pulling me down into the deep…

"No more. Please, no more."

They've broken me.

The last bit of resistance I can muster before I admit to my crime is to replicate Gory's last words. A loving father and uncle deserve as much.

Blackness.

I'm awoken by the pain of Pravda's hand in my hair. He's dragging me along the floor.

There's no more fight in me. I don't resist as he checks the handcuffs. I don't resist as he slips the noose around my neck.

_Wait, what? There's no way I'm going the same way as Logan. No way in hell. _

I try to get my head out before he tightens it. My good leg finds his groin. He doesn't cry out. Instead, he grabs my side and squeezes hard, digging his fingers into the skin. He tightens the noose as I scream.

I can see Lev and Boris from the corner of my eye. Lev looks on impassively. Boris nods as he stares at me. Vaguely, I notice that Pravda isn't next to me any more. Neither is Gustav at the door.

The winch starts up. The noose lifts.

I must get my neck out. I cannot die like Logan.

The skin of my wrists tears anew as my hands claw for my neck, stopped by my back and the handcuffs.

I take as many breaths as possible.

I'm lifted off the floor by my neck. The pressure in my head is incredible.

_Need. Air._

My toes strain furiously as I attempt to stand on the floor now several feet below me.

Good thing I'm light.

It's hard to hang a twig.

Yet, my vision is becoming blurry. Colors are swirling, fading into grey.

Support! My toes gratefully push against the table under my feet, taking some weight off my neck. I gulp in oxygen gratefully. My ribs won't shut up. I feel a stab at every small movement, every inhalation and exhalation.

"Are you ready to talk now, Ms Maine?"

I hate how Pravda says my name, even though it's not my name. He over pronounces the 's' in Ms, and drags out the '-ine' in Maine.

His foot taps the table. The threat is clear. Talk or dangle.

I can't take this much longer.

"What… do you want to know?"

"Why did you kill my son?"

Boris asks the question.

"Logan Echolls was my lover. Gory killed him. The rest is history."

"Impossible! Gorya isn't a killer! He's not even a member of our organisation!"

_What?_

"You… lie…"

I'm rewarded by Lev kicking the table out from beneath me. I kick and twist in midair until Pravda replaces it.

"You lying little _mandavoshka_. You knew that we sent Gorya to join an American secret society. You knew that Gorya was on the verge of being promoted in that secret society. So you killed him. You killed my son! Now we're decades behind in our planning! Who the fuck hired you?"

"You know, little _suka_, if we were to kill anyone, we'd shoot or stab him. Then Pravda over here will cut off his fingertips. Then pull out all his teeth. Then remove all his tattoos. Then throw what's left into the Pacific. We don't pussyfoot around faking suicides. That's what people like _you_ do."

Lev's words make me cold inside.

"Yes, I would. I certainly won't lie about doing it, especially not to you. Maybe I'd deny involvement to the police, Ms Maine. I knew Gorya. He's an auxiliary member at best. You see these?"

Pravda takes off his wife beater. Much of his torso is tattooed. A rose, beautifully detailed, graces the area over his heart. A large cross takes up much of the area under the rose. Two stars are in the area blocked by the straps of the garment.

"Gorya had none. He wasn't a member."

The information hits me like a physical blow.

_I remember now. I remember what I've missed all this while. Gory drinks… used to drink… at the Mugger Toad all through Saturdays. Logan died on a Saturday. _

_I failed to check the simplest thing before embarking on my crusade. I forgot to check my suspect's alibi. Vengeance blinded me._

_Occam's razor, Veronica. The simplest explanation is almost always true. _

_This is the simplest explanation. _

_Logan killed himself. _

_I killed an innocent man. _

_I murdered an innocent man!_

_MURDERER!_

_NO!_

I barely hear one of the Sorokins asking me a question. I keep crying out in denial. My calves are cramping up, my toes are sore. My neck is chafed by the rough rope.

"NO!"

"Fucking _blyadina_!"

The table is kicked out from under my feet. Once again my feet spasm and kick, straining for any support. The pressure in my head is overwhelming. My eyes are fixated on the ceiling. The ceiling is a kaleidoscope of color, fading to grey.

Voices whisper in my head. I hear Logan on a beach.

"You're just. Plain. Wrong."

I hear Gory on a rooftop.

"I'll be seeing you around, Veronica."

I hear the clinking of hypodermic syringes as they strike each other.

I hear many voices. Some angry, some placid, some jubilant, some loud and commanding. They exclaim truths, half-truths, and outright lies. I cannot differentiate between them. I dare not differentiate between them. I dare not even trust myself anymore.

The voices fade away. Grey fades to black. What a difference a little information makes.

_Fortune favors the told. _

**Outside the warehouse**

Special Agent Stirling leads his team forward. He checks in with SOC Trent every few minutes. The SOC is holed up in an observation post somewhere in another warehouse.

The chopper had landed a distance away from the target; far enough that they would be able to approach the target warehouse without being detected, and near enough that they would be able to start their operation quickly. The SDPD cars are standing by, half a mile away, waiting for their signal.

The team is clad entirely in dark blue, perfect for blending into an urban background at night. Silencers adorn the barrels of their weapons, and the weapons are fully loaded, ready. The Tasers are fully charged.

"We've reached. Five possible hostiles are patrolling the exterior of the building. We have eyes on three possible getaway vehicles."

"Roger that. Be advised, we have an undercover agent on the ground. Repeat: we have an undercover agent on the ground."

"Shit."

That changes everything. It's a good bet that the targets are inside the building, as a mob boss is highly unlikely to be patrolling the building. However, now that there's an undercover agent on the ground itself, the agents need to be extra careful not to accidently kill one of their own.

"The agent in question knows what he's doing. He knows the approximate time of this operation. He'll be hiding somewhere. Arrest him too. We cannot place any suspicion on him at all."

Stirling flips on his thermal imaging goggles. One of the figures is squatted behind a dumpster, smoking. He doesn't seem to be armed. Stirling gives instructions to his team. They move as a unit, an organic whole.

The silencers on the weapons don't make the weapons completely silent. They do however reduce the sound to something akin to a phone book being slammed on a table.

The two guards furthest away, those on high alert, fall dead to the ground. The other two are incapacitated by ranged Tasers. The guard smoking behind the dumpster surrenders without a struggle.

The rest of the team moves quickly. There's no guarantee that the occupants of the warehouse haven't heard the silenced gunshots as well as the scuffles as the other guards were incapacitated. A flash bang grenade is thrown through a hole in a window. The door comes crashing open as a booted foot gives it a solid kick. The agents burst into the room. The two men wiping their eyes are quickly Tased and cuffed.

The third man isn't wearing a shirt. He has a small girl held in front of his body. A knife is pointed at her neck. The girl has a noose around her neck. A cut rope trails from the end of the noose. She is unconscious.

All the agents are shouting at the top of their voices, each demanding the man put the knife down and release the hostage.

"Get away from the door."

The agents ignore him. A drop of blood rolls down the skin of the girl's neck, from the place where the knife has nicked her.

He presses the knife harder.

The agents move. The man moves toward the door, slipping out quickly. The rest of the team is outside, with the guards bound and kneeling.

There's no way out. The man sees it too.

The man reaches for the sky. The girl crumples to the floor in front of him. The knife falls and sticks into the wooden floor.

A Taser shot makes him join the girl and the knife on the floor.

"All clear, Sir."

"Good. Is the hostage safe? Is Nestor alive?"

"Yes. The hostage is unconscious but relatively unharmed. Your undercover agent should be alive here somewhere. Suspects are in custody, unharmed."

"Good work."

"Thank you, Sir."

Sirens sound in the distance.

Ambulances and police cars pull into the warehouse.

**Special Agent Nestor Ramus**

At long last, the operation is over. I can get back home, kiss my wife, hug my son, and take a break from the hellish double life I've been living the past few years.

SOC Trent has really come through in this op. Lev and Boris are in the bag, I'm still alive, and so is the hostage.

After all of us are taken into custody, we'll all be separated. My partners in crime in the Russian mob will only know that I have been loyal to the end, and that I've ended up in a jail somewhere.

Instead, I'll be debriefed, assume my true identity, and go back to my family.

Lev and Boris are taken away in separate cruisers. They're not going to be allowed to talk to each other. Divide and conquer, as it were.

The ambulance pulls up. Sheets are pulled over the two sentries who were shot. The girl is bundled into a stretcher and strapped in. She's probably going to the UCSD Medical Centre. She's a brave one. Most people don't last long being water boarded. She's withstood almost an hour.

I know I'm not lacking in courage. Courage and stability under immense stress is what is needed in an undercover agent. I look forward to the downtime to come. Office work will be a nice break from all the mob activities I've been involved in the past few years.

The ambulance races off into the distance, its siren making a curious sound as it goes further away from me. My hands are cuffed behind my back, making it difficult to move. However, I manage to get a hand up high enough to perform a salute in the ambulance's general direction. Girl's a fighter.

_Fortune favors the bold. _

**A/N: **Please review! If you must know what the Russian phrases mean, I got them from  support-us/193?task=view. They aren't very pleasant phrases.


	9. Chapter 9: Me and Johnny Cash

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **This chapter has the longest dream sequence yet. Maybe I went a little overboard, what do you think?

**A/N2: **Thanks for the favourites and subs! But please try to review my writing more as well. Are there gigantic plot holes? Is everything falling together a little _too_ nicely to be believable?

**A/N3: **And I hope no one minds the return of Kyle Edwards.

_Fortune favours the bold. _

**Veronica**

The city is deserted. Cold wind howls through broken windows. Mounds of dried leaves lie scattered on the floor. The streetlights up overhead are shattered. Large black crows stare at me with dark, shiny, unblinking eyes. They're perched on the streetlamps. Their cawing echoes forlornly along the street. I shudder.

There's no one around.

There's no point staying here. I'll have to find shelter, food, water, some place to stay the night. The sun is already starting to set, sinking beneath a sea of dark clouds which promise an imminent thunderstorm.

I start to walk. It's hard to move.

Click-thump. Click-thump.

_What's making that noise?_

I look down. My left leg is wrapped in thick bandages. I try to bend down to take it off but I'm restricted by a thick elastic band which is wrapped around my chest. There's some sort of plaster on the side of my neck. More bandages encircle my wrists.

_Never mind about that. I need to find food and shelter first. _

I limp past what used to be a strip club. The windows, just like their companions on the facades of the nearby buildings, are shattered. Grime stains the walls. Bent neon tubes, dull white without power, spell out the words "Girls Girls Girls".

I stumble past a pile of rubble mixed with wreckage and torn metal. A crumpled car lies half-buried under the pieces from a collapsed building. Only the black-and-white markings as well as the red-and-blue blinkers on the roof identify what used to be a police cruiser. It has been gutted by what seems to have been an explosion.

I round the pile of rubble. The alley is lit by the flickering glow of a blaze.

There's a burning fire engine in the alley, crashed into the wall. Next to it, an ambulance lies on its roof. The shattered windows are stained with blood. A tinny voice, distorted with static, rings out from the radio, barely audible over the crackling fire engulfing the other vehicle.

"This is vehicle number… zzzz… delivering one Ms Vicky Maine… zzz… lacerations… zzz… hypoxia…"

There's no one in the ambulance. Whoever Vicky Maine is, was, she's quite the unlucky girl.

There's something very, very _wrong_ going on here. I feel a chill run down my spine as I survey the scene. The fire engine is ablaze. The ambulance is in an accident. The police car has been destroyed.

_They have been consumed by what they originally set out to prevent. _

I don't dare venture past the alley. I turn around and start moving in the opposite direction.

There seems to be no electricity at all. The streetlights which aren't broken don't seem to be functional. The neon signs hanging from the sides of the buildings are deactivated, nothing more than a series of glass tubes swinging in the wind.

The only sign of electricity is a phone booth against the wall of the strip club, near the corner of the intersection. The fluorescent light in the booth flickers. Blink-blink-blink. Pause. Blink. Pause. Blink. Pause. Blink. Pause. Blink-blink-blink. The pattern keeps repeating itself.

I peer into the phone booth. The receiver hangs from the telephone, swaying lazily in the breeze. The phone books lie on the floor, soaked in water; the pages lie in a pulpy mess. I put the phone against my ear. Nothing. Not even a dial tone.

_No answers here. _

I replace the hand piece on the rusty hook. I leave the phone booth and continue walking.

Click-thump. Click-thump.

It's really getting dark now. The distant rumble of thunder warns of rain to come. I have no desire whatsoever to be caught in the rain. Imagine wearing a huge, unwieldy, cold, wet sock. That's what a soaked foot bandage is going to feel like.

I reach the intersection. I turn left, walking around the block. The second building after the intersection looks like a bar. I look up at the signboard. There is a picture of a studious looking frog, complete with spectacles, mortarboard and a book. The letters below the picture are faded, scratched, and scorched with what looks like electric burns. They spell "Th - Mu-er -oad".

_The Murder Road? The Mugger Road? The Murder Toad? Sounds like a fun place. _

I'm thirsty and tired from all this limping around. Having a drink and a rest sounds appealing. Also, I'll be able to stay out of the rain.

The door's locked. However, the glass panels in the door are shattered, like all other windows around. I reach inside and unlock the door. The door creaks as it swings open. The sneaker on my right foot crunches on broken glass. The bandage on my left makes no sound.

The interior of the bar, its name long forgotten, is a mess. Chairs and tables are strewn haphazardly across the floor. A pool table occupies a corner of the room, red splotches and whorls dotting the otherwise pristine green felt surface. An old jukebox sits against a wall, the song selection buttons smashed, the circuitry ripped out. The bar is relatively untouched, however; the smashed bottles on the shelves are the only thing out of place.

_That's ok. I'm not here for alcohol. Water will do. _

The tap works, luckily enough. The best flow I can coax out of it is a slow drip. I rummage behind the bar counter for the cleanest glass I can find, and place it below the tap to collect the water.

While waiting for the glass to fill, I look for a place to sit. It's hard navigating the tangled mess of the tables and chairs. Most of the chairs are broken, lying in pieces. The ones that are whole are weighed down by other bits of furniture.

Something glints on the floor. It is bright silver, a stark contrast from its drab surroundings, covered in dust and muck. I bend to pick it up. It's a quarter. The side which was facing up is spotless, shiny. The other, is scarred, pitted, scratched. The largest gash runs across George Washington's neck.

The silence is a little unnerving. The crows have stopped cawing outside. The rumble of thunder has ceased momentarily.

I slip the coin into the mangled jukebox. Nothing happens.

_Seems like the power's out here too. _

I return to the sink. The chipped glass is now overflowing with murky, oily water. I'm thirsty, but not _that_ thirsty. The liquid gurgles as it flows down the sink. I rummage through the drawers, looking for something to drink, something to eat.

I almost get a heart attack as the silence is broken by the sound of the coin making its way through the innards of the jukebox. Scratchy sounds emanate from the sole speaker. A familiar song starts playing. Folsom Prison Blues by Johnny Cash. I relax as Cash's smooth voice fills the bar with warmth and nostalgia.

_I hear the train a comin'_

_It's rolling round the bend_

_And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when,_

_I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on_

_But that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antone…_

My hand closes around a plastic bottle. It's a bottle of mineral water, sealed and crystal clear. I snap off the seal and toast Johnny Cash as he enters his next stanza.

_When I was just a baby my mama told me. Son,_

_Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns._

_But I shot up a man in Neptune just to watch him die…_

_What?_

The song continues. It gets louder.

_When I think of Gory Sorokin, I hang my head and cry._

I gasp. The water goes down the wrong way. I choke, sputtering. The water I cough out makes dark marks on the dusty floor.

_The cloth covers my face. The light shining through the holes in the cloth dims as the water soaking into the fibres turns the cloth dark. My scalp burns as a hand grip it tightly, holding my head fast. _

I need to get out. A chair leg catches my foot, and I sprawl on the floor. The water bottle rolls under a table, the precious liquid spilling onto the dusty floor.

_Forget the water, get out NOW!_

I stumble out into the rain. Somehow I've missed the start of the thunderstorm. The door to the bar slams shut behind me. Even though the glass panels in the door are already shattered, the music becomes inaudible when the door closes.

The wind whistles and howls like a wild animal. The rain is coming down so fast that the sound of it is like a dull roar.

My throat is parched. I didn't actually get to drink anything from the bottle before I dropped it. I look to the sky and open my mouth, trying to get some moisture from the rain.

_Fuck. It tastes like medicine. _

I spit the water out. It's bitter, caustic even. The ubiquitous rain soaks into the bandage around my left foot.

_Ok, first things first. Get to shelter…_

CAW!

I start in surprise as a crow lands in front of me. It's a magnificent specimen, jet black feathers glistening in the rain. It's the size of a large chicken. It lands on a windowsill, cocking its head in a disturbingly anthropomorphic approximation of inquisitiveness. Its eyes are as dark as its feathers. I look into the ebony orbs and see no soul.

_There are no souls here. No people. I'm the only person left. I'm the only soul left. _

I continue down the street, slowly. The bandage around my left foot squishes as I put my weight on it. Overhead, dark eyes stare at me from disused, frayed power lines. There are crows everywhere. On the power lines, on the roofs of the buildings, high above, circling like vultures in the sky… It's a large flock of crows, all staring at me like I'm a titbit.

_Wait, what's the correct collective noun for crows? Ms Murphy used to emphasize collective nouns. That's right. It's murder. It's a murder of crows. _

Thump.

A weight hits me in the back, knocking me down to my knees. It's the crow I saw perched on the windowsill. As if on cue, the other birds take flight. They land on my body, pecking, scratching, biting, screeching. I curl into a fetal position. I must protect my head. Razor sharp beaks tear into my forearms, drawing blood. I cover my head and hide my face. I beg for the pain to end.

_Figures. In this town, only the soulless scavengers survive. They survive by preying on the weak and helpless. Weak and helpless is my soul. _

The howling of the wind grows louder. The cawing of the crows reaches a dissonant crescendo. My arms, back and legs are getting numb from all the pecking.

_Relax, it'll be over soon. _

A new howl sounds over the cacophony. It's followed by a deep, throaty roar.

As suddenly as the attack had begun, it stops. The crows fly off, leaving me in a small pool of blood.

I struggle to my feet. My arms are a mess. Several of the veins in my forearms have been ripped open. The back of my hands are ragged and raw. Blood drips from my fingers. The rain makes my wounds sting and burn. My throat itches and burns, dry as parchment. I need a drink, bad.

_Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink._

I look up from examining my hands. Fear freezes my blood. I start backing away.

A lion faces me. It sits on its haunches. Its mane is slick with some oily substance. The lion is old, experienced in the ways of the hunt. The gold of the fur is patchy with areas of grey. It yawns, displaying a disturbing array of dentition. Dried blood matts the fur around its mouth. Golden eyes stare into mine.

A wolf stands next to it. The wolf is gigantic, larger than any dog I've seen before. It's taller than me at the shoulder. Muscles ripple under its grey fur. Its claws dig into the pavement as it advances.

The rain is getting heavier. Steam billows out of their nostrils. The wolf growls again. Its hackles rise. Dark red drool falls from its jaws and plops into a rain puddle. It lowers its head, not taking its eyes off me. It puts its nose in the puddle of my blood and takes a long sniff. The lion gets off its haunches and starts moving toward me.

I turn and run. The bandage around my left foot is saturated with water. It's like dragging an extra two pounds at the end of my leg. The water soaks through to the skin beneath, chilling me to the bone.

Squish-splash. Squish-splash.

The floor is slippery. The soaked bandage is heavy. The elastic band around my chest is tight, restricting my breathing. I move slowly. When I look over my shoulder, the wolf and the lion are still walking, yet getting inexorably closer. I can count the teeth in the wolf's mouth.

_This isn't working. They're going to catch up. _

Something black flutters to the ground in front of me. It's a crow. It's jet black like the others, though it's not as large. Its eyes, however, are blue. In contrast to the lion and the wolf, there is no fire behind its eyes. Instead, there is only ice.

I can't stop to observe. The wolf and the lion are gaining.

The bird takes flight. It dives headlong into my chest. I try to bat it away, to no avail. All of a sudden, breathing is a lot easier. The elastic band lies torn on the floor.

_How did it…_

It doesn't matter. I can breathe easy now. I pick up the pace. The crow flies beside me, pecking at the bandage around my foot. My foot springs free from its grasp. I can really move now. My bare feet slap the wet tarmac as I run down the road. The bandages around my wrist and the plaster on my neck slip off and drop on the road, joining the things I've left behind. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I can't remember the last time I had a drink.

The crow rises and lands on top of a nearby building. I enter the building, jumping through a broken window. I run up the stairs, taking them two at a go. I can hear the wolf and the lion following closely.

I'm on the roof. It has stopped raining. I shut the access door behind me, lock it and barricade it shut with a nearby flowerpot. The door shakes as something heavy slams into it. The lock holds. A deep growl filters through the thick wood. The door shakes again as the door is rammed again. The concrete around the hinges is beginning to disintegrate. There's not much time.

The crow is perched on parapet. Its ice cold eyes bore into me. I can feel it reading my soul. Overhead, the night sky seems to be cracking. Light is shining through the cracks.

SLAM!

The door is giving way.

There's no way out. I climb up the parapet, next to the crow. Even though I've only climbed a few storeys, the ground seems miles away.

I feel something strange. I feel like I'm falling. Everything around me is getting larger.

_No. I'm shrinking. _

Feathers sprout all over my body. They are snow white, mottled with a shade of dark red. My skin starts to itch, but I don't have fingers left to scratch it with. I do, however, have a beak. And a tail. And wings. I catch a reflection in a shattered piece of glass. I see a white dove perched on the parapet. The white is stained with red. Its eyes seem human. They are bluish-grey, and they are filled with sadness.

Up above, the crack in the sky widens. Bits of the sky fall like dry paint, crushing buildings below like mere toys. A bright light shines through the darkness.

The hinges of the door are ripped out of the concrete. The door is rammed open, revealing the wolf and the lion. They leap for me, teeth and claws bared.

I spread my wings and take flight. I soar through the air. I feel free. I feel unbounded. I can see the lion and the wolf on the rooftop a distance below, impotent in their rage, their great strength and terrible power useless against a quarry they cannot even touch. I hear the furious howls and roars.

The cold-eyed crow is nowhere to be found. I start flapping my wings, heading to the steadily growing light shining through the cracks in the sky.

A thought strikes just as I am engulfed by the light.

_When you discover the truth, the truth shall set you free. _

**UCSD Medical Centre, 3****rd**** floor**

**Veronica**

"Fuck."

My head hurts. The first thing I see is an unfamiliar ceiling. It's a false wooden ceiling, painted in a light purple. I look around, trying to get a hold of my surroundings.

My head is pounding. My throat is sore. It hurts to breathe. My left foot throbs. IVs stick out of the veins in my hands and arms. My left foot is wrapped in bandages. An elastic band is wrapped around my chest. My wrists are bandaged as well.

I'm lying in a hospital bed. I'm in a hospital gown that's many sizes too large for me. The analog clock on the wall tells me it's 2 o'clock. A.M or P.M? I'm not sure. The clock doesn't have a calendar so I don't know what day it is.

_Well, since I'm in the hospital and not in Heaven, I guess my plan worked. But I need to get back to Neptune soon or I'll be missed. _

The IVs don't hurt much as I pull them out. They just feel kind of… weird. It's a foreign instrument stuck in my arm. It _should_ feel weird.

I'm just removing the last of the IVs when the nurse comes in, notices I'm awake, and gently but firmly stops me from taking the last IV out. She calls for a doctor. I sigh. There goes my escape plan.

I'm feeling like a pincushion once again when the doctor enters the room. She's bespectacled, with kind brown eyes. She moves slowly, talks softly, smiles a lot. She's probably doing all this so as not to spook me, or something. She's carrying my chart. It's very thin, which is to be expected. I don't exist.

"How are you doing today, Ms Maine?"

"Why don't you tell me, Doc?"

"Vicky… can I call you Vicky? You have just been through a very traumatic experience. You have been unconscious for more than half a day. You have been subject to quite a bit of abuse…"

"I know. So what's happening here?" I indicate the IVs.

"You've been shot. We've managed to extract all of the shot from your left leg. We found three pieces. You have a cracked rib on your right side, together with some abdominal bruising. We're keeping you here under observation until we can ascertain the presence of injury to your internal organs. From the way you've been talking, I'll guess there's no permanent damage to your throat, but we'll keep you here for observation just to be safe. You have a bit of water in your lungs from the… incident, so we'll monitor you for infections and the such. And you have a few minor lacerations which would probably heal well."

"When can I leave? I've got things to do."

"It'll be about a week. Some police want to interview you, but I've managed to get them to wait a few days. A nurse will be here shortly to remove the needles."

I'd rather not speak to any police. They might remember me from the few times I've been on the news. Or the few times I've been in trouble with the law.

"I know you'd be lonely staying here by yourself, so if you don't mind, I'll bring another patient in to share the room with you? This is a two patient room, after all, and we are a little short of beds at the moment…"

"Sure." No use kicking up a fuss and causing trouble. Go with the flow, Veronica.

"Don't worry; you'll be safe with him. He's a security guard. You'll probably feel a little safer with one in the room, right?" She smiles.

_Great. Now I have a guard. Well, time to play it by ear. Sneak out during a toilet break? Fake an emergency? Pull the fire alarm?_

"One thing, Doc."

"Yes, Vicky?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Oh, it's here on your file. The police provided it. It _is _your name, isn't it?"

"Yep, I was curious."

_Now that's strange. I've never mentioned my name to any police. The fact that the police know the name I gave to the Sorokins, either means that the Russian mob is leakier than a sieve, or that the FBI had a mole in the family. _

She leaves me to my thoughts as a nurse bustles in to help remove the IVs. I finally get my drink of water. I finally manage not to choke from the memory of the last time water passed my lips.

It's an hour later when my new roommate enters. I catch a glimpse of his face as the chair crosses the threshold of the room. _Shit. _I hide my face in the pillow, cover myself up with blankets. I start to think furiously. Strategies are formulated, and one by one, are discarded. I need to find a solution, and fast.

_Fuck. Shit. Of all the possible roommates I could have in the world, I just had to have one who knows me by sight and knows my name. _

My new roommate is Kyle Edwards.

**Kyle Edwards**

Life sucks. And I'm pretty sure my coffee machine hates me.

Granted, my life sucking is pretty much all my own fault. After all, who makes coffee out of beans which have passed through the digestive system of a dog?

The answer? No one. There's a good reason why no one does it. You don't do it unless you want to be in horrible, horrible agony for days with excruciating stomach cramps, rolling about in a hospital bed in the next county which costs a few week's pay. Specialist care for food poisoning is pretty expensive, after all, and I didn't have the foresight to buy health insurance.

On hindsight, I'll admit, it's pretty funny. Failure wannabe barista getting life-threatening food poisoning from home-made… speciality coffee. Hell, Kenny even phoned in to tell me that I was featured in the papers.

Well, the only good thing that has come out of this experience is that I'm on paid leave. And the hospital food's not half bad. And since I've about half a week before I'm discharged, I've been shifted into several different rooms, in the interest of saving space. My first day out of the ICU, I room with a kindly old gentleman who is recovering from cancer surgery. The next, I'm moved again, and share a room with an middle-aged Chinese lady who doesn't speak English too well. I, however, now know how to greet people in Cantonese. Both politely, and impolitely.

Today's no different. Space constraints force the hospital to maximise bed room. Since I'm recovering pretty routinely, I'm considered a low-risk patient and thus can tolerate some room changes. Change is the only constant.

Today's roommate has her face turned away from mine as I'm wheeled into the room. She's a small lady with shoulder-length brown hair. She must be tired. She's probably been in some sort of accident. She's bandaged and has some sort of elastic brace around her torso. I decide to wait until we're alone in the room before trying to introduce myself.

_The world would be a much nicer place if we could all just introduce ourselves, exchange greetings, however meaningless. It's certainly better than ignoring each other and living in silence. After all, what are the odds that I'm ever going to see my roommates again?_

The door closes behind the nurse. We're alone now.

"Hi there. My name's Kyle. I'm here because of food poisoning, if you can believe that. What's your name?"

No answer. Oh well, at least I tried. I reach into my backpack and take out a dog-eared book on coffee-making. I flip it open and continue where I'd left off.

"Kyle? I think I need your help."

The voice is soft, faint and vaguely familiar. I take my eyes off the riveting chapter about different classes of grinders and look at my roommate.

"Ms Mars?"

It's Veronica. La Café Angelo. It's definitely her, even though her hair is cut short and dyed brown.

"Oh my god, what happened to you? Were you in an accident?"

She stares at me, her mouth agape. It's a few seconds before she replies.

"Yeah, totally! It was a hit and run, I got grazed by someone who ran a red light."

"Did you get the registration? I know some people who can track the driver down. Vehicle make? Model?"

"No, it all happened so fast, and no one was around."

"Oh."

"Anyway, I'm actually here on an errand. By the way, have you seen any police around on this floor?"

"Yeah, there's one sitting outside the room. He's reading Elle magazine, can you believe it?"

"Yes, actually. I know a lawyer who… never mind. Anyway, I need your help."

"Anything."

"I'm actually here on a job. A delivery. The package is safe somewhere. The client is supposed to get it in a few hours. I was just stopping for coffee when that bastard clipped me with his car. And I really, really don't feel like talking to the cops about what happened."

_She's on a job? She really shows lots of dedication. I can see the grit in her eyes. Wait. Who am I to interfere with police procedure? Face it, Kyle, you're just a private rent-a-cop. _

I get ready to say no. She sees my lips move. Her eyes turn pleading. Her head starts to tilt, ever so slowly, to the right. I feel my resolve crumbling.

_Veronica has helped me before. She has introduced me to a world of delight, sorrow, great beauty, trials and tribulations. The world of coffee. I should probably repay the favour. _

I change my mind.

"That bad, huh? How can I help?"

"Thanks! Could I just borrow your jacket? I'm going to just step out for a moment to 'use the bathroom'," she does air quotes, "and I'm going to leave and do my job. I'll drop the jacket off on a Saturday night at the guardhouse. Aaand… if anyone asks, you were sleeping and didn't see me leave. And you don't know me, you've never seen me before, and we never talked. The lesser you claim to know, the fewer questions the police will ask."

_That's weird. Why is she being so secretive? Never mind. I gave my word that I'll help her. I'll just charge more for the favour. _

"Oookay. That package must be really important for you to do this. I'll do as you say. I don't know you, I've been really sleepy, and I fell asleep right after entering the room. End of story. So, how are you going to make it up to me?"

She freezes. Suddenly, she looks small, vulnerable, frightened. The grit and determination I see in her eyes become clouded by _something_. Grief? Melancholy? Loathing? She takes a deep breath, winces, and starts to speak.

I cut her off.

"Woah, what do you think I was going to ask for? Just tell me how you make your coffee taste the way it does, and my lips are sealed. It's a promise!"

The relief in her eyes makes me smile, though I'm a little worried about that look in her eyes. Her eyes have seen too much, experienced too much. It's like looking at an old soul trapped in a young body. Or maybe I'm just imagining things. No one's life is _that_ fucked up. She smiles that great smile of hers and starts her impromptu lesson.

"The secret's all in the butter…"

_A barista is born._

**Veronica**

Well, that went well. Kyle is a quick learner. He picks up the basics of coffee-making quickly, though his prior knowledge and history of experiments is… worrying at best. Apparently he hasn't thought of searching the Internet for tips. I don't encourage him to. Too much internet searching, and one Kyle Edwards may just find out a little bit too much about one Veronica Mars.

The door closes silently behind me. The guard is engrossed in his magazine. He's reading… nope. He's studying the "Fitness 4ever" workout routine, as demonstrated by several athletic and scantily clad fitness instructors. I highly doubt he's reading the text. He only gives me a cursory glance and doesn't stop me as I leave the room.

_I guess wearing Kyle's jacket is enough to convince him I'm a foot taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a guy. Police work is too good for him. _

It hurts to put my weight on my left foot. It hurts to breathe. When the nurse removed my IVs, she switched me over to orally-administered painkillers, not the stronger IV stuff. I didn't take the pills. I need my wits about me today. However, not having painkillers makes my foot, stomach and chest hurt like a bitch.

_Thank God for elevators. Imagine climbing stairs like this. _

I try to keep my pace up. In my experience in adopting personas, going undercover, gaining access to places where I've no right to be, I've learnt one important thing: it's imperative that you look like you know what you're doing. That way, no one will question you, stop you or cause any problems. It's not just appearance, it's a mien.

I stride confidently through the hospital. I succeed in keeping my grunts of pain internal. I avoid the policemen I see scattered around the building.

_It's one thing to fool a normal person; it's another matter entirely to fool someone who's actively looking out for anomalies. I'm lucky that the door guard was so distracted. My journey could have ended before it even began._

Amazingly, I make it out of the hospital without being challenged. My eyes squint as they adjust to the glare of the late afternoon sun. The jacket helps a lot in concealing the hospital gown, and the patient file I took with me. Kyle has also kindly given me a spare set of pants. Guy really has lots of stuff in his backpack.

I board the bus to the St. Barlaam. A tall, broad man helpfully and unintentionally helps me board for free. He distracts the driver, asking for small change, and blocks her view as I sneak in behind him. No one notices the small teenager in the oversized sports jacket and rolled up jeans. Everyone's face is buried in a book, newspaper, phones. They don't look at each other, and they don't talk. I gladly join their ranks.

_Quiet and impersonal, just as I like it. _

It's about half an hour when I alight two stops before the St. Barlaam. I start the slow plod to the locker row.

_Thank goodness for hospital slippers. _

After about twenty minutes of continuous limping and wincing and being overtaken by rude geriatrics, I finally reach the locker row. I realise that I've forgotten something very important.

_I threw the key away. Genius, Veronica. They'll be laughing about that for years to come. _

No two ways about it. I walk up to the locker and start trying my best to rip the door off.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

A security guard claps his hand on my shoulder.

_Think fast, Veronica. There'll be time to sleep, to rest, when this is all over. When will this be all over?_

"Oh, hi! My name's Vivian. I'm trying to open this locker, but it seems kind of stuck."

"Ever heard of a key?"

"Hee! You're so funny! Thing is, I've lost my key. And all my stuff is inside…"

"Nothing doing, miss. You think I've never heard that con before? Scram before I call the cops."

"I can prove it. My phone's inside the locker. All I need to do is to call it. My wallet's inside there too. I'll pay for the key, I promise."

The guard hands me his cell as a response. His name tag says 'Andy'.

I dial my number, and hear the buzz of the phone from the locker. Good thing I attached the backup battery. Smartphones may be smart, but they consume ridiculous amounts of juice.

Andy rummages in his pockets and retrieves a large bundle of keys. He begins to insert them into the lock, one by one. I try not to tap my (good) foot in impatience.

The lock springs open. I thank him profusely as I retrieve my belongings.

"That'll be fifteen dollars to change the lock."

I give him twenty five for his trouble.

I walk out into the evening. I avoid the St. Barlaam. With my wallet, I can make it to my car, easy. I take the bus. Some cabs make video records of their passengers, and that won't happen to me today.

The Saturn's still where I left it. I've parked it in a well-lit spot, in a respectable area of the city. I take out the note I wrote for Dad. I burn it with the cigarette lighter. I read the patient file and burn it too. I scatter the ashes in the wind.

I gag as I put the parking ticket into the paying machine. Seventy dollars? Overnight parking is exorbitant, especially downtown. The price for a lost ticket is only fifty bucks.

I decide to pay the seventy dollars. Far too many people have seen me today. Far too many people exist who can pick me out of a line-up. I don't want another car park attendant to remember me as well.

I don't really worry about Kyle. He seems sweet, if a little smitten, but sincere. However, the doctor, the locker guard, the nurse, the bus driver, those I worry about.

It's about seven when I start the long drive back to Neptune. I've been running on empty for more than a day. I'm dog tired, weary to the bone. My eyelids start drooping.

_No. Stay awake, Veronica. You haven't come this far to fall asleep at the wheel. _

I turn on the radio. Soulful country music floats out of the car's speakers. I turn the volume up. Elvis starts screaming instead of crooning, forcing me to stay awake. No one can sleep through country music blasting at max volume. Why don't I listen to rock music instead? I plan on actually keeping my eardrums for future use.

The song changes. The radio plays an old classic by a country legend. As the familiar words fill the car, chilling me to the core, I pull over to the side of the road and sob.

The enormity of the past few days chooses this exact moment to hit me like a sucker punch, backed with a sledgehammer.

_I almost drowned. I almost died. I almost killed myself. I killed an innocent man! I'm a murderer! MURDERER!_

_It has all been for nothing. _

The words of the song, played at maximum volume, drown out the sound of my sobs. My forehead is on the steering wheel, and what feels like a waterfall of tears fall out of my eyes, trickle down my cheeks, and drop to the floor. I weep until the tears refuse to come; my body saving the water for more important things. Like respiration.

Cars whizz past me, not a single one stopping to offer help. The moon and stars stare down from the heavens, apathetic and uncaring.

There is no one.

I'm all alone.

It's just me and Johnny Cash.

I sing the next line with him.

_When I think of Gory Sorokin, I hang my head and cry._

**A/N:** Please review!

**A/N2: **In case you don't know Russian (I don't), Lev is the Russian name for Lion. Boris means Wolf. And Pravda is truth or justice. Hope I gave some meaning to the dream.

**A/N3:** The coffee Kyle was trying to replicate before getting food poisoning is Kopi Luwak. It's made from beans which have passed through the digestive system of a civet cat, and is supposed to be excellent. I've never tried it before though.

**A/N3: **One more chapter to go before the halfway point! Please stay tuned!


	10. Chapter 10: Vengeance, thy name is

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **This is the final part of the first half of my story. It's a little slow throughout, but I thought it would be a good way to end this segment of the story with a little downtime for Veronica. She's been a little busy recently.

**A/N2: **I can't remember, in season 3 are the Marses still living in Sunset apartments? If they aren't, please let me know and I'll change it asap.

_When I think of Gory Sorokin, I hang my head and cry._

**Veronica**

Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock.

I lift my head from the steering wheel. A quick check in the vanity mirror reveals an angry red band on my forehead, probably from where I'd rested it on the wheel. My whole body feels like one big, throbbing bruise. It hurts to breathe, and the skin under the elastic band is starting to itch. My left leg, swaddled in bandages, starts to throb anew.

_I must have fallen asleep on the side of the road. _

Thankfully, I must have switched the engine off before collapsing from exhaustion. The gas tank is still half empty. Walking the remaining fifty miles to Neptune with a shot-up foot? Not going to happen.

Last night was a blur. The last thing I remember was listening to the radio and crying. I don't remember much after that. The windows are all rolled up, and are foggy from my breath. The world outside the windows is light grey. It's probably dawn; the sun must be rising. Since it's almost summer… 7 AM? I can hear the whoosh of trucks passing outside; the Doppler effect of their passing both surreal and comforting.

Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock.

I almost have a heart attack as the knocking starts again. Evidently the windows are so fogged up that I can't even see the person standing outside the door.

"'Scuse me! Is there anybody in there?"

The man knocks again.

I debate the merits of driving off and leaving him there. However, my windows are still fogged up, making entering traffic possibly suicidal. And from the person's manner, he's not a cop. He'd woken me up before the cops could find me. I probably should be grateful about that. I'm not really ready to be probed with questions about my wounds, my sleeping on the road shoulder, and my attire (over-sized jacket, over-sized jeans, hospital gown) just yet. And I'd bet gold bullion to empty promises that the San Diego police are currently on a lookout for a person matching my description at this very moment.

_I can't afford anymore screw-ups. Luck has been on my side so far. What happens when my fortune takes a turn for the worse?_

I start the engine and roll down my window just a crack. Best to be cautious, especially since Sparky is probably somewhere in a police evidence room at this very moment. I'm not going to be hijacked after successfully escaping both the FBI and the Russian mob.

"Yeah, I'm all right. Thanks for waking me."

I can see the man's eyes through the slit between the door frame and the window. Dark brown eyes look back into mine. They're full of concern.

"Look, kid, it's good that you pulled over when you couldn't continue instead of just driving on, but get a designated driver next time, ok? You won't want DUI on your record."

"I'm not…yeah, sure. I'll keep that in mind. Thanks again."

My voice is hoarse. I'm suddenly very thirsty. I don't remember the last time I've had any water.

The man leaves. I hear the crunch of tyres on gravel as his pickup exits the shoulder and continues on his way. I wind up the window and turn up the air conditioning. The interior of the car is humid and stuffy.

I stretch as the fogged up windows begin to clear. Falling asleep in the driver's seat is not the most comfortable position to be stuck in for a few hours. My neck and shoulders protest as I stretch out the cricks and stiffness. I try to stretch my feet to the best of my ability. My right foot feels normal. My left, however, feels like it's encased in lead, with needles stored inside, poking my foot each time I move. Now that I'm a little more awake, a little more alert, my ribs start to act up, sending out extremely distracting flashes of pain whenever I breathe. A dull ache emanates from my empty stomach. I'm still exhausted. It's impossible to get any restful sleep while hugging a steering wheel. I consult my reflection in the vanity mirror again. _Yep. I look like something Backup dragged in. _

I need to get home, to rest, to drink, to eat, to think about my next move. _If I'm even going to have a next move. _

The sun has just breached the horizon. The cloudy sky is a beautiful orange-red. A flock of seagulls passes overhead.

I check the back seat. I signal left, enter the road, and drive home.

**Two hours later**

I manage to reach Mars Investigations without dozing off at the wheel. The steadily intensifying pain all over my body, the unbearable thirst and my growling stomach make it almost impossible to fall asleep.

_One stop before home. I must know. I have to know. I need to know for certain that Gory had an alibi. _

I pick up the newspaper and mail and enter the office. The stairs pose no obstacle to my curiosity.

Mars Investigations is in the same state I've left it in, except for the thin sheen of dust covering every surface. I had not accepted any new cases since Logan died. Once the existing cases were resolved, I used Mars Investigations as a base for my research. All my information regarding Logan's death is there, neatly filed and arranged. One of the cork boards on the walls is now filled with newspaper articles regarding the incident, as well as contact information for relevant witnesses. Another is covered with the photos I took of the scene in the Neptune Grand.

I go to the sink and fill a glass with water. I lift it to my lips and tilt back. The water gets closer, closer.

_The cloth darkens. Water starts filling my nose, mouth, everywhere. There is no escape. _

The glass makes a racket as I drop it in the sink. The water flows down the drain. The drain gurgles.

_Fuck. How do I drink when all I can associate water with is what happened that night in that warehouse?_

My patient file had read: Patient is likely to be suffering from post-traumatic stress related acute hydrophobia. Recommend continuing intravenous hydration. I don't like the sound of that.

I need a straw.

I've not seen a straw in Mars Investigations since I cleaned out the office two years ago. It was dusty, bent, and dirty from where I'd retrieved it. I found it behind a chest of drawers, probably left behind by a past client. I threw it out immediately after finding it.

I'm starting to regret doing that now.

There's no other way. I go to my desk and retrieve one of my pens. It's a cheap BIC ballpoint pen, orange with a blue cap. Dad always said to keep a few BIC pens handy; they can do myriad things _not_ related to their original purpose as a writing instrument. The cap, for example, can access earwax. Ew. The body, for instance, can be used in a pinch for an emergency tracheotomy. Or to prop a window open. Or as a last ditch weapon.

_Or as a straw. _

The pen cap and refill go into the trash. The pen body is just a short plastic tube, perfect for my purpose. I refill the glass and stick the pen body into the fluid. I keep my head down, my neck bent.

_I don't think I'll be able to tilt my head back while drinking for quite a while yet. _

The water feels wonderful going down my parched throat. I take tiny sips. The glass takes a while to empty. I drink another glass in the same manner.

Once I feel a little more human, I carry my third glass, pen still inside the water, and walk back to my investigation board.

From my epiphany in that warehouse in San Diego, I now know that there's one witness that I've failed to identify and question. I pick up the phone and dial the number for the Mugger Toad, just as I had all those weeks before. The phone rings three times before it is answered.

"Hello there, this is the Mugger Toad bar. I'm Steve, how can I help you?"

"Hi Steve, this is Annie calling from the Hearst Free Press. Do you have a minute?"

"Of course. Our bar doesn't turn down free publicity."

"Could you tell me how the shift system works in the bar? Are bartenders randomly allocated to each individual day or are they assigned to a particular day of the week?"

"Um… what does this have to do with the bar? Never mind. Our staff works specific days. We have three teams. The first team just got off work, they take Tuesdays and Saturdays. I'm part of the second team. We take Sundays and Thursdays. Team three takes Monday, Wednesday and Friday."

"Great. And how often do the teams switch allocated shifts?"

"We switch twice a year. Our last change was… three months ago."

"Thanks. Could you give me the contact number of the bartender for the second team? The one which operates Saturdays?"

"Sure. His name's Robert. Call him Bob. He just got off work so if you call him soon you might get him before he goes to bed."

Steve helpfully supplies the number. It's a cell.

"And what was this interview about, again?"

"I'm investigating the link between excessive alcohol consumption and drug abuse in Hearst college."

"Um… no comment."

Click. He hangs up. Good thing I got that far before he asked me for a reason.

I replace the handset and take it up again. I dial the number he gave me.

_The moment of truth. _

I hear nothing. I wait a minute and try again. A man with a rich, deep voice answers after two rings.

"This is Bob."

"Hi there! I'm Annie from the Hearst Free Press. Mind if I ask you some questions?"

"I don't know… Steve just called and told me not to say anything to you. Anyway, I'm tired, I need to sleep, so see you."

"This is about Gory Sorokin."

He pauses. At least he hasn't hung up yet. I've got his attention.

"I'm doing a piece on the dangers of mixing drugs and alcohol. Your input will be extremely valuable in ensuring that what happened to Gory doesn't happen again."

"I'm listening."

"Have you seen Gory Sorokin before?"

"That I have. He's a regular."

"Does he patronize the bar on Saturdays?"

"Yeah, he used to come in at about noon, and he played pool, hung around. We never did kick him out, though; he used to buy drinks throughout till late."

"Did he miss any Saturdays? Maybe in the past one to two months?"

"Come to think of it… he did miss one evening."

My heart leaps to my throat. I give him the date of Logan's death.

"Was it this day?"

"Hmm… I can't really remember."

"Please, it's important."

"No, it can't have been that day. That's the day that that Echolls kid killed himself, right? No, he was here all night, kicking up a fuss, complaining about drinks… he looked like he had been in a fight."

"Are you completely certain about that?"

"Absolutely. He was a nice kid, always paid up in full, tipped generously…"

Click. I hang up.

I put my face into my hands and gently hit the table with my forehead.

Thump. Thump.

_I knew it. I've known ever since I met Boris and Lev. Gory may not be the most pleasant person, but he is innocent. I've killed an innocent man. _

I debate turning myself in. It's the only right thing to do.

_No. Dad will never survive the disappointment. And Logan's real killer is still out there, waiting to be found. _

Confession will have to wait. After all, it's been barely two days since my last one, down in St. Barlaam.

My leg is killing me. I take a seat at my desk as I sort through the mail. The headline of the newspaper, in large block letters, grabs my attention before I can get through any of the letters.

BUSTED! FBI smashes Californian Mafiya expansion

I smile. _At least something has gone right this week. _

I keep reading. Apparently the FBI was able to capture both Lev and Boris, together with a few of their top lieutenants. The FBI spokesman was quoted as saying that the Russian mob in California is "as good as gone".

I know never to speak that way. Problems such as this _never _go away, just like cancer. They hide, bide their time, and return stronger than before. Tougher, smarter, leaner, meaner, less overconfident than before.

My eyes wander to the article at the bottom of the page. The base of my woefully empty stomach falls out.

Key witness escapes from hospital: Is the San Diego PD actually worse than Neptune's?

There's no mention of Kyle. Looks like he held up his end of the bargain. Still, the newspaper carries a composite picture of me. It doesn't look like me, not unless I'm a brunette with shoulder length hair.

_Wait. _

I take a look at my reflection off a mirror. _Crap. _I'd totally forgotten I'd dyed and cut my hair. The guy who woke me up this morning could recognize me. Then he'd go to the police and say, I remember seeing someone matching the description at the side of the road on the morning of the escape. Then they'll ask, what's the make and model of the car she was in? Then they'll search the records of Saturns registered in San Diego and surrounding counties, including Neptune. They'll find out that a car matching the description was sold to me less than a year ago, a present from a father with a guilty conscience. And then they will know that I am Vicky Maine. And then it will all be over.

_Stop it, Veronica. They're not after you. You can't have done anything wrong by being in that warehouse. Plus, you opened the window just a crack. The man couldn't have seen anything. _

My heart races in my chest. I take a few breaths to calm myself down. My chest joins the long list of things demanding my attention. I bite the pen to distract myself from the pain. It cracks. I grind the fragments between my teeth.

Finally, I'm calm. My ribs stop hurting. I spit the plastic pieces into the trash can. The rest of the pen follows suit. I take another BIC from the pen holder. I make another straw.

_The newspaper says that I'm likely to be injured and walking with a limp. They probably think I'm an illegal immigrant, possibly a hooker belonging to the mob. They don't know I have a car, medical supplies, and a bottle of dye remover at home. _

I can survive this. I tear my eyes away from the newspaper. I start looking through the mail. Two days, and the amount of unread mail already weighs about half a pound.

The first letter is a crime advisory from the police department. I see Vinnie's face on the top, feel a little nauseous, and chuck it in the trash. Next. A bill for the new listening equipment that came a week ago. I take a new manila envelope, put the letter inside, and scrawl "ATTN: DAD" on it. I'd leave it on his desk before I leave.

Likewise, I sort the next few letters. An advertisement for a property agent gets added to the growing pile of rubbish in the trash can.

The fifth letter is from the FBI.

_Crap. They can't have figured it out so quickly._

I tear open the envelope. I quickly read the sheet of paper inside. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I'd completely forgotten that the FBI internship starts in one and a half weeks. The letter is a reminder that I'm expected to be there, and that no accommodation would be provided.

I sigh as I look at the clock. It's already 10 AM. I need to book my flight, arrange for a place to stay, and pack. I'm still exhausted. The time where I finally get food and sleep seems more and more distant. I've got so many things to do before I can relax, eat and rest.

The minute hand of the clock moves forward. Time and tide waits for no man.

_No two ways about it. I'll just do it one step at a time. _

I turn on my computer and get on the phone.

**Three hours later, Sunset Apartments**

**Veronica**

_I'm too tired to sleep. _

At least that's what I'm telling myself. Anything to keep myself awake, the car on the road, and not crashed into a building or a parked car. I've tucked my brown hair into a cap. My foot and ribs are killing me. I yearn for the painkillers which are in the medicine case in the cupboard under the sink, but I know that I still have much to do before I can allow myself some rest.

I've managed to book myself return tickets to Virginia. I made the inquiry relatively late, so I don't expect the tickets to come cheap, but I've managed to get them relatively affordably. The plane leaves in a week, though, which means I'll be half a week early for the internship. Just as well. It's enough time to settle my accommodation.

Accommodation is another headache. The FBI doesn't provide lodging, so interns are expected to settle their own accommodation. I settle with searching Craigslist for a place to stay, not too far from the academy. I find some options, but I don't finalize any rent agreements just yet. I insist on seeing the property with my own eyes before signing on the dotted line. Something that Big Dick Casablancas has taught me to do.

_Oh well, at least I'll be there a few days before the program starts proper. _

I park my car and look about. There's no one around; the neighbors are either at work or staying indoors. Even the pool's empty.

_Almost there. _

I drag myself up the stairs and to the door. I throw the door open, get inside, and close it behind me. I throw Kyle's jacket and his pants onto the sofa. I contemplate taking a nap on the sofa, in blissful oblivion.

_I'm too tired to sleep._

* * *

I retrieve the bottle of dye remover from my cupboard. I take out the first aid kit from under the sink and open it on the table.

I get a pair of scissors and start removing the bandage around my foot. Looking at my leg after I get it off, I wish I'd never touched the thing. Three short lines of stitches run down the side of my calf, one near the knee, another midway from knee to ankle, and the last just above the ankle. _Probably where they removed the shotgun pellets. _The stitches are black against the pale skin. Luckily, they don't seem to have broken or torn throughout the past day's movements. I'll give them a few days and remove them myself. Likewise, I remove the bandages around my wrists. An angry red line encircles both wrists. It's scabbed over.

_Ouch. Looks like the Russians use sharp handcuffs. Or maybe I was struggling a little too hard. _

I can't seem to remove the rib band around my chest. I search around it and find metal hooks securing one end of it to the rest of the elastic band. I slip the hooks out of the fabric, and the rib band falls to the floor. Likewise, I crumple the hospital gown up and toss it in a corner.

_I'll dispose of them later. _

I take a look at myself in the bathroom mirror. The skin above my right ribcage is mottled purple. There's a large bruise on my belly. I don't remember how I got those injuries. The patient file said something about 'abdominal contusions' and 'hairline fracture of the right fifth rib', but I don't understand any of that. All I know is that the treatment planned is 'rest and support'. Fine. I'll try to get as much rest as possible in the next few days.

When I look into the mirror, I see a young brunette. Vicky Maine stares back at me.

_Vicky has to disappear. _

I enter the shower with the bottle of dye remover in my hand. The water stings the wounds on my leg and wrists. I invite the pain. It keeps me awake. It keeps me moving. It keeps me functional.

_I'm too tired to sleep. _

It takes longer that I'd expected for my hair to return to something resembling its natural color. The hairstylist claimed that the semi-permanent dye would wash out in twenty-eight washes, so I simply wash my hair thirty times. By the time I get out, my skin is as wrinkled as the skin of a dried prune.

I look in the mirror and see Veronica Mars, albeit with significantly shorter hair. I look exhausted, as if I was running on fumes. My stomach rumbles. What should I get first? Sleep or food?

I enter my room and pull on comfortable clothes, a sweatshirt and track pants. The bed beckons; the two pillows look like outstretched arms, just waiting for me to leap into their embrace.

That settles it. Sleep first. Food later. I slowly lie down on the bed, taking care not to jolt my ribs or my foot. I lie on the soft mattress, staring at the familiar ceiling overhead, waiting for sleep to claim me.

_I'm too tired to asleep. _

My mind is still fully awake, still thinking, strategizing, wondering. What if I'd checked Gory's alibi before going on my crusade? What if the man who woke me up this morning recognizes me from the newspaper and reports me to the police? What if I never find Logan's true killer? What if? What if? At the back of my mind, I remember reading somewhere that not all who wonder are lost. _Perhaps I can take inspiration from that. _I try in vain to stop my mind from working, thinking, dissecting. My head starts to hurt from all the effort of trying _not_ to think. My ribs and foot join in, resuming their throbbing again, the painkillers I received a lifetime ago in the hospital having long lost their effect. I need the nurofen in the medicine kit which is sitting open on the kitchen counter in the next room.

I get up from the bed. The stitches in my leg stretch the skin painfully. My bruised abdominals protest as I sit up. My head starts spinning as gravity pulls the blood from my brain.

The plastic crackles as I pop a few pills from the blister pack. I can't be bothered to read the dosage instructions in the box. I find a glass, fill it with water. I find a BIC pen sitting on the table. I convert it into a straw. I place the pills in my mouth, and suck the water up with the makeshift straw. I manage to swallow them all without choking.

Back on the bed, I feel the throbbing begin to ease. The aches start to dissipate, my leg feels less like a pincushion, and I can actually start to breathe a bit more normally. My mind calms, starts to be a little more sedate. I'm starting to feel a little more relaxed. Perhaps sleep would come to me today. My eyelids slowly close. I feel sleep coming, inexorable like the tide.

The more I think about Logan's death, the more I realize how much I actually don't know about the case. I'll need to start afresh. Take a look at the case with new eyes. Draw up a proper list of suspects, their motives and possible modus operandi. I cannot afford to make any more mistakes. Not after what I've done to Gory. I used to think I knew what really happened that day in the Neptune Grand penthouse. Now I'm sure I don't.

But I promise this. I will find out what really happened and I WILL expose, destroy and punish whoever was responsible.

I'm sorry, is that too aggressive? Well, you know what they say.

_Vengeance, thy name is Veronica. _

_Part 1 Fin. _

**A/N: **And so concludes the first part of my story. I'll take a short break and start anew in a couple of weeks or so, just to let my muse recover. Please do review and critique the story as it has happened so far, let me know of any plot holes you may discover, how to improve, etc. I'll definitely reply to any signed reviews. Thanks **silverlining2k6** for reviewing almost every chapter!

**A/N2: **Please stay tuned!


	11. Chapter 11: No rest for the wicked

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **It's great to be back! The two weeks of break really helped me think of new events to put in, characters to include, interactions to have… Thanks for all the insightful and thoughtful reviews, they really inspired and heartened me.

**A/N2: **Sorry if this chapter is a little long. I tried to write this chapter around how Veronica is coping and recovering from what happened in part 1. Also, I like how she cleaned the office in 1x21 as a means to come to terms with her rape investigation, so I replicated it in here.

_Previously on Get Tough Get Even_

_Logan is discovered dead on the night of the elections, presumably a suicide by hanging. Veronica reads the suicide note and finds something strange on it. She immediately suspects Gory Sorokin of killing Logan and making it look like a suicide, for that's what she would do for a perfect murder. She encounters Gory one night when he's drunk. She kills him in a fit of rage when he gives an inconclusive confession. _

_Consumed by guilt, Veronica embarks on a self-destructive crusade to take down the people who gave Gory the power and influence to throw his weight around – the Russian mob. She succeeds, but at the cost of being traumatised and learning that she had, in fact, killed the wrong man. _

_Now, as she comes to terms with the fallout of her actions, she prepares to leave for Virginia for the FBI summer internship, where she hopes she will be able to discover the true killer of Logan Echolls. _

_If there is one. _

_Vengeance, thy name is Veronica. _

**Four days later, Thursday**

**Mars Investigations**

**Veronica**

People say that cleaning is cathartic. I wholeheartedly agree. Soak a cloth with cleaning solution. Wipe said cloth on dirty surface. Clean said surface with a separate cloth. Watch as the muck and grime of ages past dissolves and disappears, seemingly by magic. Rinse cloths, and repeat. Rinse and repeat enough times, and you _might_ just start thinking that your past sins can just be removed in those few, simple motions, leaving one clean and new.

It has been more than two years since I last cleaned Mars Investigations, and since then it has metamorphosed into something dirtier, more untidy and, should I say, squalid. No, that's probably not a good choice of words. Mars Investigations is our sanctuary. It is the eye of the storm of injustice and corruption which permeates this town, seeping into ones clothes, staining ones soul. It is our refuge, the one place where we, not someone else, are in control.

Therefore, Mars Investigations is not squalid. Never will be squalid. It's… quaint. Something like a cosy, nostalgic antique store, with the decade-old fax machine which we never bothered to throw out, instead buying roll after roll of overpriced, outdated toner. The statue of Lady Justice sitting on Dad's desk only helps to enforce the illusion of an antique store, the scales she holds in her hand reminiscent of days gone by when people measured out money by mass instead of denomination. The statue is, thankfully, facing away from the door, so I won't feel its eyes staring accusingly at me, burning holes in my back, behind the copper blindfold.

The office is full of oddities. The drawer which needs to be lifted before being pulled out. The fan which clicks twice when it faces left while oscillating. The rough spot in the carpet just outside the pantry where the fibres got burnt… that's a story for another time.

The office is home, almost as much as the Sunset Cliffs.

And when I enter and notice that the dust bunnies have bred, well, like bunnies, I decide that home cannot be squalid.

Which is why I find myself doing a little overdue spring cleaning in Mars Investigations on a Thursday morning, instead of packing and preparing for the upcoming FBI internship.

I start with the windows. I've always thought that the windows were relatively clean, but as it turns out, stained glass is excellent at hiding dirt. The windows are filthy. I discover a wasp nest, long abandoned, at the corner of the window sill. I crush it up with the end of a broomstick and remove the rest with a paint scraper.

Before long, the water in the small plastic bucket is murky brown. I pick it up and pour it down the pantry sink. I refill it and continue.

I had been resting and recovering for the past few days. I'd just removed the stitches on my left foot yesterday, based on expert advice (all hail Google), and the bruises on my abdomen and the cracked rib are healing nicely. I still struggle to take deep breathes and carry heavy loads, and sit up, which is why I'm using the smallest pail I can find. And spring cleaning is a poor girl's physiotherapy. The cuts and abrasions on my wrists are scabbing over nicely. Hopefully they will heal without leaving scars. Right now, they sting and smart when they contact water.

I progress downward from the highest point in the room. I'm too short to reach the ceiling, so I start from the windows, then the shelves, then the tables, then the cupboards, then finally the floor. The rationale is, gravity being what it is, dirt falls downward. So there's no point in cleaning the floor first, then moving upward, when all the dirt you remove from the walls, tables et cetera would just land up on the floor again.

Apart from cleaning, I test the listening devices and video surveillance devices. I mark those which have reception problems and place them in a box where I'd scrawled 'For Fixing Fast' with a Sharpie. I oil the handcuffs. I run a pipe cleaner through every pen in the office after removing their refills, making sure that none contain any bugs.

I remove a brand-new Taser from the stores cupboard. I load the batteries but not the cartridge. It's one of those newer models which fires two wires that carry the electric current. It looks like a handgun, with the trigger set in the middle of the plastic body. I activate it. The electrodes spark and crackle, electricity arcing between them, a bright flickering blue line. I keep it in my bag. I'll need a replacement for Sparky, which I left behind in San Diego. This should do.

My cleaning progress has almost reached the floor level when the phone rings. It's Dad.

"So it's my little girl, going to become a Fed! How time flies… it just seemed like yesterday when you solved your first case at four."

"Dad, I don't think solving the mystery of who ate the last doughnut counts as crime fighting. And by the way, your breath smelt of cream. And your fingers were all sticky."

"Guilty as charged, Veronica."

"So how's your case going in Sacramento?"

"I can't believe that I'm saying this, but I'm actually cautiously optimistic. Turns out Jake Kane's not going to testify against me after all, so the prosecution's likely to drop the case."

"Wonderful."

"It does, however, seem just a _little _bit too good to be true. Veronica? Did you do something?"

The lies come easily.

"Dad, how many places do you think I can be at once? I've been packing for the past week. Fashionista Mars, that's what the kids at Hearst call me. And haven't you heard something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?"

_In fact, in the past week I've blackmailed Jake Kane, killed Gory Sorokin, orchestrated the takedown of the Sorokin crime family, and almost got myself killed in the process. Oh, and the kids at Hearst? They don't call me fashionista. Let's just say that I'm more well-known for taking my clothes off than for what I'm wearing. _

"That's my girl. I'm just so proud of you. My daughter the Fed. I know you'll just kill it in Quantico."

I wince at his choice of words. In fact, the internship couldn't have come at a worse time. I'm still recovering from San Diego. I'm still trying to think of suspects for Logan's murder. I still have to clean up the mess that is Mars Investigations. The last thing I want to do is fly across the damn country and be in extremely close proximity to the organisation which tracks people like me. Murderers.

But reason prevails. I know that the FBI can impart me with skills and knowledge unobtainable in Neptune. I know that the FBI has information available that could aid my investigation. I know I can throw a spanner in the works in any investigation that's conducted regarding a certain Vicky Maine. And I know that if I miss this internship, the FBI will ask questions. So will Dad. And I can't have that happen.

I promise to call him from Virginia. I promise to stay safe. I promise to call him when I return so he can pick me up at the airport. We say our goodbyes and hang up.

I actually plan on keeping those promises. I'll use this internship as time to cool off. Time to rethink the case, chase down leads, allow my injuries to heal. No more going off half-cocked, allowing my emotions to get the better of me… not after what I'd done to Gory.

I return to cleaning. The shelves and cupboards are all spick and span. The files in the cabinets are all organised in alphabetical order. The drawers used to be squeaky; after I'd sprayed some WD-40 on them, they glide open and close with nary a sound. The pictures and frames on the walls are now parallel to the floor. I had to locate a spirit level for that to happen.

Finally, I'm cleaning the floor. The mop glides over the burnished wood of the parquet flooring, imparting a glistening shine to the dark brown floor. As expected, the floor is filthy; we haven't had enough time in the past two years to give it a proper clean. When I'm done, the water I squeeze out of the mop is almost black with dirt and dust. The contents of the pail go down the pantry sink. I watch a small piece of dust circle the sink around the drain, as if it were struggling to stay afloat. Alas, it rides the flow of the water into the sewage system. _Hopefully all the dirt doesn't clog up the pipes; it'll be a pain to call the plumber. _

_Cleaning doesn't eradicate dirt. It merely transfers it away. Out of sight, out of mind. Whoever thought that cleaning is cathartic is either delusional or in denial. _

I pack up the cleaning supplies. When I look through the windows, I can see the sun setting, a dark orange orb sinking into cloud-swollen skies.

_Great. Time flies when you're spring cleaning. Also, I've missed lunch, and I've got tonnes of things to settle before leaving for Virginia. _

I resolve to stop by a drive-through later.

I lock up the office and walk off into the evening.

**Sunset Cliffs Apartments**

It is a few hours later when I return home. I've a sling bag around my right shoulder. Inside are a few bugs from the office, both video and audio. I've taken a few T6s and some newer models of video bugs that don't have large, bright, blinking red lights on them when they're activated. I also bring a few location bugged BIC pens along. I'm not exactly sure what I'm going to be doing at the internship, but I'd prefer to be in a situation where I bring them for nothing, rather than be stuck in circumstances where I need them but don't have them at hand.

The bag also contains my new Taser and its peripherals. Charging cables, electrode cartridges… it's pretty heavy. I've removed the case file I've kept about Logan's death and brought it with me. The thick sheaf of crime scene photographs I took in the Neptune Grand, surveillance photographs, suspects lists… everything is in a manila folder in the bag. Dad can't know about my investigation when he returns. Adding to the weight on my right hand is a plastic bag of fast food takeout. My left hand is holding a Coke with a straw stuck into the lid. All in all, it's really difficult to get the door open.

The interior of the apartment remains like how it has been for the past three days. I've been barely able to get up and walk about, much less tidy the place up. The bandages from the hospital are strewn on the floor. Kyle's jacket and pants are still lying crumpled in the corner. I make a mental note to clean the apartment up before I leave. After leaving the chaos and strife in Sacramento, Dad's not going to want to return to more chaos at home. The blood-stained bandages on the bathroom floor are certainly going to raise some uncomfortable questions.

I take a deep pull from the Coke cup. I sigh.

_Well, after a day of cleaning at the office, I just have to come home to… more cleaning. My work is never done. _

I take a bite out of the burger. I put it on a plate on the kitchen counter. I roll up my sleeves, tie back my hair and get to work.

_Whoever thought that cleaning is cathartic is delusional. _

**Friday**

It's 3 am when I finally align the last picture on the wall and toss the last piece of trash into the final black garbage bag. The bag is almost full. It contains my hospital gown and the blood-stained bandages I'd removed after leaving the hospital, I had to stop vacuuming the carpet five hours ago when the neighbors complained. I'll just do it later in the day. Maybe at noon.

The apartment looks by far the neatest and the cleanest I've seen it. When Mom was around, she didn't really do much housework. She did even less after Lily died, when we moved to this much smaller apartment to save money. The pictures on the wall are straightened. I'd scraped the old dried-up blue tack off the walls and replaced it with new pieces. Now the wall posters don't flap in the breeze. The cobwebs adorning the junction between the walls and the ceiling have been cleared. The kitchen counter positively _sparkles_, the surface squeaks as I run my finger over it. The floor is clean enough that I might just consider walking around barefoot, just to experience it. The carpet? Well, I'd get to that later. The circular cup stains on the coffee table have been wiped clean and the surface is now an uninterrupted glossy brown.

I'd almost forgotten about the burger. It's icy cold by now. The cheese and grease has soaked into the bun, congealing into an unappetizing mass. I toss it into the trash. The flat, lukewarm Coke follows. Spring cleaning really makes one thirsty, the constant moving and work sapping moisture out of the body. I fill a glass at the tap and drain it. Much better.

I toss Kyle's jacket and pants into the laundry basket. The least I can do for him is to return his clothes in a presentable condition. I place the Taser in my sweater's kangaroo pocket and bring out the laundry. At half past three in the morning, the Laundromat across the pool is deserted. You can't be over prepared. Everyone in the apartment complex is asleep. Not me. Dreamland is one place where I'd rather not be at the moment.

The quarters slide easily into the slot. I pour some washing powder into the washing machine, place Kyle's clothes inside, and start the cycle. I'd have to return half an hour later to transfer the clothes into the dryer. The landlord is too cheap to install new combination washing machine-dryers. It's also a good excuse to charge us twice: once for washing, another for drying.

While waiting, I take a short walk through the back of the complex to the rocky coast. Dad chose Sunset Cliffs Apartments originally because he thought that having a 'beach-front' apartment would make Mom happy. It didn't work. Partly because a rocky shore in no way constitutes a beach. But I like it. A rocky shore is just as good as a beach for listening to waves, seagulls, the sounds of the oceans. It also has the added advantage of solitude. No one surfs or plays on a rocky shore. It's a perfect place to be alone. I sit on a smooth piece of rock, and hug my knees to my chest. The Taser digs into the bruises on my abdomen, so I shift its position until I feel comfortable.

The light of the half-moon overhead reflects off the choppy waters. The rhythmic pounding of the waves against the shore is soothing. A comfortably cool zephyr blows from the ocean. A quiet rumble of thunder is a harbinger of rain to come. No matter, the washing will be done in half an hour. I snuggle into my sweater. My eyelids suddenly feel as heavy as the sling bag I brought home from the office.

_To hell with vacuuming the carpet. Whoever said cleaning is cathartic is delusional. _

**Deputy Sacks**

It's hard being an honest cop in Neptune. At least, I _think_ I'm honest. Am I being honest with myself? Anyway, as far as I know, Leo and I are some of the only deputies who actually go for their scheduled foot patrols. The rest? They just sign on their patrol logs and neglect to turn up.

And as I trudge along the rocky shore at ten in the morning, I curse the ethics that have been ingrained in me, long ago, by my parents. It's raining. Not a light drizzle, but a downpour which reduces visibility to something in the ballpark of two hundred yards.

This rain is unusual, especially for California. It must be a result of that 'global warming' thing that everyone's talking about on TV. The raincoat is doing a good job of keeping my upper body dry, but sadly it doesn't extend to cover the pants. That's why my boots are soaked through. I can feel the water sloshing about each time I clench my toes. I miss my patrol car, parked half a mile up shore at the car park. I miss the heater, the shade, the radio. Out here, there's just the reality of soaking wetness, biting cold, the sound of the surf pounding the rocks and fat raindrops slapping the floor.

But there's no rest for the wicked. And so there's no rest for the good either. Illegal immigrants have been known to use inclement weather to cover their entry. The Coast Guard has just sent an advisory down to the Sheriff's department. Sheriff van Lowe doesn't give a shit, but I know that the more illegal immigrants there are in Neptune, the higher the crime rate will be. And the department is already short-staffed.

I miss Sheriff Mars. But here, the reality is that Vincent van Lowe is the Sheriff of Balboa County. Sheriff van Lowe, the incompetent boob that makes our dearly departed Don Lamb look like Sherlock Holmes in comparison. I've seen van Lowe work before. There's definitely a keen intellect behind those eyes, and with his prior experience as the owner of the largest private investigating firm in town, he definitely knows how to get things done. _What are you playing at, Sheriff?_

My train of thought is interrupted as I see a speck of bright pink interrupting the monotonous grey of the rocky shoreline. It's a person. She's small and blond. She's curled up in a fetal position on the rocks. I've seen people overdose on drugs on beaches before. Usually, if they haven't been discovered until morning, they're pretty much too far gone for medical help. But one can hope.

I jog closer. She's looks small and frail. Junkies usually look like that. She's got her hands cupped behind her head, drawing it close to her chest. She's rocking and mumbling. Her eyes are open, staring, unseeing. She seems to be saying 'no' over and over. Her short blond hair is plastered to her face, saturated with the rain.

"Excuse me, Ma'am? Neptune Sheriff's department. Are you all right?"

No answer. She shows no signs of hearing me. I squat down and try to shake her to get her attention.

As soon as my hand touches her shoulder, she stiffens as if my hand were a live wire. Her hand shoots out and slaps my hand off her shoulder, knocking me off balance. She gets up to a sitting position as I fall on my butt. There's life in her eyes, a fierce fire. She looks pissed, afraid and resigned, all at once. She also looks a little familiar.

My thoughts freeze as her right hand shoots into the pocket on the front of her sweater. The bulge there raises alarm bells in my mind.

_Gun. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I should have called for backup, should have called my parents this morning and told them I love them, should have stayed in the station like the other sane deputies…_

"Get…away… from me!"

Her voice is strangled, hoarse. She's pointing an exotic-looking pistol at me. Time slows. My sidearm snags the edge of my raincoat. I tug hard. I hear a ripping sound. The pistol comes out of its holster. I feel the cool sea breeze on my shirt, underneath the hole I'd ripped in the garment.

My eyes never leave the barrel of the girl's gun. Her finger is on the trigger. It tightens. Slowly.

_Death comes. _

Everything moves so slowly. My arm muscles scream as they force my pistol up to my eye level. My left thumb fumbles on the hammer, but gets it drawn back on the first try. My right thumb flicks the safety off. My left hand shifts to the bottom of the pistol, supporting and stabilizing it.

Her trigger is halfway depressed. Any time now, the short, unimpressive career of Jerry Sacks is going to end, in a flash of lead and gunpowder.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"

I shriek out the command. I hate how my voice sounds when I do that.

Of course, she doesn't listen. No one listens to me.

BZZT.

Wait a minute. I'm still alive. The girl's pulled the trigger. And guns don't make that sound. The barrel of her weapon sparks, a blue vertical line appears between what looks like electrodes.

Comprehension dawns. It's a Taser. Luckily for me, it doesn't have a cartridge installed or I'd be limp on the floor right about now.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

She keeps pulling the trigger like it's a life line. I quickly scramble to my feet, moving a yard away from her.

"Drop your weapon, now!" I repeat. She keeps pulling the trigger. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

I realize, with a shock, why she looks so familiar. She's Veronica Mars, Keith's daughter. I'd come down to that very apartment complex once or twice before. She looks a little different, though. She's lost weight. Her eyes are bloodshot and wild. She's definitely been crying. She's favoring the right side of her chest with her left hand as she points the Taser at me with her right. And her hair is cut to shoulder length. She looks like hell, or like something that's been chewed upon and spit up.

"Veronica? Veronica Mars? It's Deputy Sacks. You remember me, don't you?"

Slowly, she seems to notice where she is. She stops pulling the trigger on the Taser, and drops it on the floor. She shakes her head and rubs her eyes.

"Sorry about that, Sacks. You must have woken me from a nightmare."

"Must have been _some_ nightmare."

I lower my gun but keep it in hand. She seems to have stabilized but I'm not taking any chances.

"Oh my god. What's the time?" She shades her eyes and looks around.

"Half past ten."

She curses under her breath.

"I'm really, really sorry, Sacks. I was doing a little late night laundry, went to the shore to relax, I must have dosed off. I'm sorry I freaked you out."

"Don't worry about me. Just think what you almost did. I could have shot you! Rule number one, young lady: never point something that looks like a gun at a police officer!"

"Honestly? I thought I was still dreaming. Don't worry, this won't happen again."

She sneezes. Twice. She winces and clutches the right side of her ribcage. She shivers in the rain.

I have immense respect for Keith Mars and his daughter. They're both obviously going through a great deal of trouble in their lives right now, and the last thing they need is a charge of assaulting a police officer. Besides, Veronica looks so vulnerable and lost, shivering in the rain, that I don't have the heart to book her. It would be worse than kicking sick orphaned new-born puppies. And I'm a sucker for canines.

I holster my weapon. I wrap Veronica in my raincoat and help her home. I notice she's limping on her left foot. It's probably from her awkward sleeping position. She fumbles the key into the door lock, coughing and sneezing. She finally gets it open. She returns my raincoat and faces me across the threshold.

"Thanks… for everything, Deputy."

Her smile touches her eyes. I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

"You sure you're all right? There are people you can talk to, confide in… despite what the papers might have you believe, your family _does_ have friends in Neptune, Veronica."

"I know."

She thanks me and closes the door.

Everything seems sharper, more clearly focused. It's probably the adrenaline still coursing through my body, a remnant from what I'd believed to be a close brush with death.

Well, enough excitement for the day.

I trudge back to my cruiser and return to the station. I'll just sign my shift off like the rest of the deputies. Just for today.

_No rest for the wicked. The good, however, have more than earned some reprieve. _

**Veronica**

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

My back slides down the back of the door as I sink to the floor.

It's been screw-ups after screw-ups, close calls after close calls. The latest one? Falling asleep on the beach, waking up by _pointing a freaking Taser at a police official?_ I'm lucky I didn't get arrested. Or shot. Yes, I almost got shot. I could see it in Sacks' eyes when he was yelling at me to drop the Taser. I know that Vinnie, despite our amicable dealings in the past, can be petty and vengeful. I'm fortunate that Sacks was the one to wake me. Sacks and I, well, let's just say that we know each other well. It's lucky that I was relatively far from the apartment complex. If one of my neighbors had called an ambulance, it would be a lot harder to explain away my injuries.

_It's almost as if I've got a guardian angel watching over me. _

I quash that thought almost immediately. There are no angels in Neptune. And I am no saint.

Still, I've just lost half a day. I still need to pack for the internship. I need to get some lunch; my stomach is growling. I need to get rid of this massive migraine. I sneeze. I wince as my ribs act up again. _Now that's what you get for snoozing in the rain. I've probably caught a cold. _

Oh yes, I've almost forgotten. Kyle's clothes are still in the Laundromat. I change out of my clothes. They are sopping wet, and the new clothes I replace them with feel like heaven.

Someone has thoughtfully dumped Kyle's jacket and pants into one of the available dryers. I insert the quarters into the machine and it starts its cycle. I return to the apartment while waiting for the cycle to complete. My head's killing me, so I take two aspirins from the medicine kit and wash them down with a glass of tap water.

Now that the kitchen table is clean and clear, I take the opportunity to review my case files on Logan. I spread the photos on kitchen table, an analogue to an evidence board. It's pretty challenging. The kitchen table is small, and I did take very many photographs. One in particular slides off the edge, fluttering end over end down toward the floor. I bend to pick it up. It's the photograph of Logan's suicide note.

_Ronnie,_

_I'm sorry for all the hurt I have caused you. Everything is my fault. I am, and have always been a coward. In the end, I'm my father's son. And I cannot risk hurting you anymore. I know that I will die someday. At least now it's on my terms. I'm sorry to leave you like Lily did. _

_Logan Echolls._

Could it be? I know now that my original conclusion after reading the note was wrong. Could it be that he was really trying to tell me something?

Lily. She doesn't fit into the general flow of the letter. What did Lily do? She was Logan's girlfriend. She was Duncan's sister. She was my best friend. She loved guys. She flaunted her sexual conquests.

_And she hid her most important, most personal things in air vents. _

Could it be? The air vents in the Grand's penthouse were never checked by the police. I'd not thought to look there, being blinded by misguided thoughts of vengeance.

I throw on a jacket and pick up my keys. It's almost eleven, just after the Grand's checkout time at ten, and before the check in time at noon. I know someone who can get me in. They're probably not willing, but I can be persuasive.

I swallow two more tablets of Panadol, washing them down with another glass of tap water. I lock the front door behind me, get into the Saturn and drive to the Grand.

**Neptune Grand**

The reception at the Grand is manned by unfamiliar faces. I'm actually looking for Tina Callas. She used to be Logan's 'friend'. To me? Just a passing acquaintance. Water under the bridge. Instead, the reception is manned by a Ryan, an Adam, and a Cecelia.

I choose Adam.

"Hi, is Tina in today? Tina Callas?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Tina works on weekends now. Shall I tell her you called?"

"That won't be necessary."

I have another person on the inside. Getting help from this person, however, won't be as easy as Tina.

"how about Jeff Ratner? Is he in today?"

"Yes, you're in luck, ma'am. He's just started his shift. You'll find him around."

"I guess I will. Thanks."

"If I may ask, why are you looking for Jeff? He's not in any trouble, is he?"

"I'm just his classmate from Hearst. We doing a little class assignment together. I'm just here to decide on a topic with him."

"No worries. He usually brings room service orders to rooms… you should start your search for him at the kitchen."

"Thanks." I walk away, but turn back and ask another question.

"By the way, can you tell me if the penthouse suite is occupied right now?"

Adam beckons me over. He whispers in my ear.

"I didn't tell you this, but it's not occupied. It hasn't been occupied since, you know, the Echolls kid offed himself in there, and the police cleared out. It was all over the news. Now no one would stay there anymore. Who knew? Neptune folk are a superstitious bunch."

I thank him and walk to the kitchen. _Now that's a spot of good fortune. Having an empty room means getting in and out would be a little easier. _

The kitchen is the nexus of the room service business, a hive of activity. White coated kitchen staff move through the aisles as if they'd been doing so since antiquity. The air smells of boiling oil, spices and bread. A metal table on the left holds a wide selection of spices. Knives of various shapes and sizes adhere to a magnetic strip on the wall. A lobster, sliced in half lengthwise, adorns a plate, together with a selection of raw fish. The slices are arranged in such a way that they form the shape of a flower.

Somewhat of a contrast, next to the lobster platter lies a plate with a humble grilled cheese sandwich on top.

Apparently they _do _serve anything on the Neptune Grand room service menu. They pride themselves on serving 'anything from aioli to zucchini'.

I stand in the corner, observing the black-clad room service waiters as they walk through the service door and pick up their orders. Ratner's not there. I keep watching and waiting.

There! He's picking up a plate of pasta with a coleslaw garnish and turning back to the service elevator to deliver the order. _Coleslaw garnish? Not touching that. _

I manage to slip through the rapidly closing elevator door. We're the only ones in the small compartment.

"Morning, Ratner."

"Well, isn't it a surprise. Good morning, Veronica Mars. What brings you here to our fine establishment? By the way, I just love the dark circles around your eyes? Been burning the midnight oil lately?"

"Yeah, about that. You're going to get me into the penthouse suite."

"Woah, woah… who died and made you boss?"

I see red.

The next thing I know, Ratner's back is pressed against the wall, and the plate of pasta with the awful garnish is on the floor. He looks shocked. I look down and see my left hand pressing him to the wall. His hands are up in a submissive pose.

"I…I'm sorry. That was r…really rude of me. C…completely out of line. I forgot about you and…"

"Save it. Now are you going to let me in, or do I have to resort to other, more drastic measures?"

Even though he's taller than me, I think the situation's pretty much under my control. Also, I curl the dark fabric of his shirt up in my left hand. I can see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"Relax, Veronica. I'll get you in. You're lucky it's not occupied at the moment."

"I know that."

"Of course. You know everything." At my glare he continues. "I hope you can find some closure… Logan was cool, you know? Tipped well and everything."

I release my grip and Ratner starts to scoop the ruined meal off the floor and onto the plate. He presses the button of the floor he was originally going to twice to cancel, and presses the button marked PH.

The lift slowly rises. I stare at Ratner, and he avoids my gaze by patiently arranging the pasta on the plate with the fork and knife. Once the pasta is roughly centered on the plate, he wipes the fork and knife on a serving cloth and places them on the plate. I frown.

"Are you serving that, Ratner?"

"No. No! Of course not! Why would you think that?" He giggles nervously.

I keep quiet. I resolve never to eat at the Neptune Grand ever again. Ever.

* * *

Ratner's key card slides into the lock and it clicks open. I open the door and enter.

The room's just like I remember it, the last time I saw Logan alive. They'd removed some items, of course, like the pictures, video game equipment and personalized sheets. I've never actually noticed, but Logan actually never owned many items himself. He was just a visitor to the room. A long-staying one, but a visitor nonetheless. The room fell into his lap and he just… stayed.

I move quickly. I need to search all the air vents before Jeff can serve the plate of pasta.

I don't have a Philips head screwdriver, and each of the air vents has four screws securing the cover over the vent. My switchblade will have to do. The sharp metal squeaks and scratches as the screws begin to turn.

The living room? Zilch.

Duncan's and Dick's old room? Nada.

Logan's room? Jackpot.

My arm is up to its elbow into the dusty air vent when my fingers brush against something. It's an envelope. My fingers grasp it and pull it from its hiding place. My heart hammers in my chest.

It's a plain white envelope. It's sealed. The words 'To: Veronica' are scrawled on the envelope in heartbreakingly familiar handwriting.

I've found Logan's true parting words. I cradle the envelope reverently, and then place it in the inner pocket of my jacket.

Ratner's still outside when I leave the room. He's still carrying the plate of tainted pasta.

"I'm done here."

"So, that's it? Not even a word of thanks?"

I ignore him. I walk into the open elevator and press the button marked L.

As the doors slide shut, I hear Ratner shout. "You bitch! I hope you got your closure!"

* * *

Closure's the last thing on my mind right now, as I drive back home from the Grand.

The only way I can get closure is to discover Logan's killer and put him or her behind bars. The legal way. Vengeance and crusades for retribution, lashing out at suspects without knowing the full story? That's all in the past, and I'll be regretting it the rest of my life.

Logan's final letter lies over my heart; its presence providing comfort. I can even imagine it soothing the pain from my healing ribs.

The desire to read Logan's letter burns deep within me. However, I know that if I read the letter, that would be it. Logan will be gone, forgotten, lost forever. Reading his last words would be acknowledging that Logan is forever gone, and I would have to move on with my life.

I'm not ready to do that.

I'll only read the letter when Logan's killer's behind bars, or dead. Only then will I be able to move on with my life, or what's left of it with all the holes cut out.

Fuck closure.

I can feel my eyes getting heavy again. Everything is sluggish, slow. The headrest feels feather soft on the base of my skull. _The drowsiness must be from the aspirin I took two hours ago. _I remember what happened the last time I dosed off, and struggle to stay awake. It really won't help my cause to drift into oncoming traffic. That would really ruin my day, worse than getting shot by a trigger-happy deputy.

With great difficulty I make it home.

**Sunset Cliffs Apartments**

I brew the strongest coffee I have. I wash down another two aspirin with a glass of tap water to combat the returning aches and migraine. There's no time for me to sleep just yet. I don't dare to sleep. Not after what happened when I fell asleep the last time. My flight to Virginia leaves on Monday, and I've yet to arrange accommodation, transport, and pack enough for ten weeks.

_Will this day ever end?_

I need to start now. Something's wrong with the coffee. It doesn't energize me as much as it used to. _Maybe I've got the concentration wrong, or something. Or maybe I'm more tired that I'm willing to admit. Yeah, right. I'm still fighting fit. _

I remember something. Oh crap.

It's been three hours since I'd put Kyle's clothes in the dryer. I'd better retrieve it so I can return them to him tomorrow.

I open the apartment door. My muscles ache with a deep weariness that afflicts me to the bone. But I drag myself to the Laundromat. I can sleep on the plane on Monday.

_There are no angels in Neptune. And I am no saint. And there is no rest for the wicked._

**A/N: **Please review! I'll definitely answer signed reviews. Also, apologies if this chapter contains too much rambling.


	12. Chapter 12: A bird in the hand

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **This chapter is a little shorter and slower than the last one. In this chapter, we follow Veronica as she moves to Virginia to start her FBI scholarship. I did a little research on Google Maps and discovered that Quantico is actually very close to DC, which was surprising. Also, Tasers are illegal in DC but legal in Virginia, which potentially could spell trouble for Veronica.

**A/N2:** Apologies for the verbal diarrhea that happens when Veronica muses about motives and suspects. I had to get the list of who she suspects and why out, and I decided to have it done this chapter.

**A/N3: **Thanks for all the reviews and follows, everyone! The insight you readers provide into my writing really helps me improve.

_No rest for the wicked._

**Saturday**

**Veronica**

Blue. The color of the sea in those postcards of tropical island paradises that Dad and I always talked about visiting but never had the money to. The color of a summer sky devoid of clouds. The color of jeans fresh from the rack, never worn nor washed.

Black. The color of the darkest night. The color of a road winding through the desert, radiating shimmering heat waves. The color of the charcoal, straight from a paper bag, that Dad and I use to fuel our barbecue.

Those are the only two thoughts in my mind as I stare at the bird. It's a magnificent specimen, the crow. Any ornithologist would concur. It's about a foot and a half from the tip of its claw-like beak to the end of its gleaming tail feathers. Each of its feathers is jet black; not one of them is out-of-place. The only thing about the bird that isn't pure black is its eyes. Blue as the sky above, yet completely devoid of a soul. Ice cold. Alien.

The crow stands on the road verge. It digs its beak into the soft, moist soil, between perfectly manicured blades of grass. Its gaze never leaves mine. It pecks. Again. Again. It finds something. It pulls. Meets some resistance. Yanks at it with more force.

The crow's head snaps back as it pulls something out from the soil. It looks like an earthworm. It writhes and struggles, yearning for the cold, damp embrace of the earth. The crow doesn't eat it. It just stares at me. I look closer. The earthworm is dark green. I've never seen a dark green earthworm before. I strain my eyes. It's difficult to focus.

It's not an earthworm. It's a dark green rubber tube. It looks like a tourniquet. The crow stares at me. Then it flicks the tube into the air and swallows it whole.

I know where I've seen that tourniquet before. It was along the Pacific Coast Highway where I'd thrown it into the sea. I thought I'd never see it again. I should have burnt it together with my gloves. And I _know_ I've seen that exact bird before. Somewhere.

All I know is that I need to retrieve the tourniquet. My hand slips into my jacket; fingers encircling the grip of the Taser tucked in my waistband.

_The electrical charge will take the bird out, assuming I hit. Once I've got the crow in my hands, it would be easy to… obtain the tourniquet. My switch blade's in my pocket. And I've dressed game hens before. _

_A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. _

"Can I help you, Miss?"

I start at the sudden noise. I look up. There's a young black man looking at me behind a glass screen. He's wearing a security guards uniform. His name badge tells me his name is Anderson. He's bleary eyed, looking like he's just woken up. A trail of drool runs from the corner of his mouth down his cheek. He wipes it off on his sleeve.

Now I remember. I'm outside the Kane estate. I'm supposed to be passing Kyle's clothes to him. They're folded neatly inside the plastic bag I'm holding in my left hand. And I _did _just wake Anderson up.

I glance back at the verge. The bird is gone. But there's no sign of anything having been pulled out of the soil; the verge is luscious green, the soil rich and loamy and undisturbed. _Was it just my imagination?_

I turn back to the guard.

"Mr Anderson, welcome back. I've missed you."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Listen, is Kyle here? Kyle Edwards. He works the night shift. I have a delivery for him."

"Sorry, Miss, Kyle's still on sick leave. Let's just say that he had a… food poisoning incident that all of us are going to laugh about for a long, long time."

"I'm envious of your camaraderie. Look, I've got some place to be, so would you mind helping me hold onto his package and give it to him when he returns?"

"Hmm… we don't usually take deliveries for employees…"

"Do you usually sleep on the job too?"

"Erm… hehehe..."

"Look, just pass this package," I lift up the plastic bag, "to Kyle. It's just clothes. Do it and I'll fill that empty mug of yours with something I'm pretty sure you're going to like."

I pull out my Thermos.

**Twenty minutes later**

That was easy. Pity Kyle's not going to be here for the week; I was looking forward to thanking him face to face.

I walk back to my car. I check my phone. Yes, the photo I took of Anderson, sleeping inside the air-conditioned comfort of the guard house, is saved. If Kyle doesn't get his clothes back, Clarence Wiedman's going to get an email. And someone's going to get fired. And it's not going to be Kyle.

The Thermos is half empty, the last dregs of coffee slosh about unappetizingly. Once Anderson had a taste of what I'd brewed, one cup wasn't enough. He needed two, no, three cups more. He's going to be a _bona fide_ caffeine junkie soon.

I open the driver's door and sit down. I drink what's remaining of the coffee. It's not enough. I need to stop zoning out. Me imagining the crow is a good indication of that. I reach into the back seat and grab a can of Red Bull. It comes from a torn six-pack. Three cans are missing. I don't remember drinking them, truth be told.

I'm only halfway packing. Luckily, I've managed to locate accommodation, find a company that's willing to loan me a car for about ten bucks a day, and finally get Kyle's clothes from the dryer, all in two days. I still have to make everything I've prepared fit nicely into two suitcases, and keep it under the airline's maximum weight allocation.

I check the backseat of the car again out of habit. _Strange. There's only one can of Red Bull left. The other must have rolled under the seat or something. _I dismiss the thought and drain the can. My fingers slip into the inside pocket of my jacket, and feel for the presence of Logan's letter. It's still there, the thin sheets of paper that make up the envelope and its contents. They provide me with some measure of comfort. I start the engine and drive home.

**Monday**

**Veronica**

"Miss? We're landing soon. Could you please put your seat back upright and stow your tray tables?"

The dulcet tones of the air stewardess rouse me from my dreamless slumber. I stretch as much as the economy class seats would allow me, and look around. I'm in the cabin of an airplane. All around me, passengers close their tray tables, put their seats upright, and switch off their MP3 players. Many are dressed in business suits. With the economy doing as it is, I see firms are downgrading their employee transportation budget to economy class. A few rows behind me, a group of high school students are on a summer holiday excursion to the capital, judging from their banter. A few rows forward, a baby bawls as its mother removes it from the bassinet in preparation for landing. There's so much noise that I can't believe I slept through all of it. Apparently I've accrued quite a sleep debt. And it's great that I'm too tired to dream.

I put my seat back upright. I open the window and look out. The sky is clear, and I can see tiny roads, trees and buildings down below. I can just make out tiny vehicles moving on the roads.

Movement! A black bird flies next to the airplane, effortlessly keeping up in speed. I stare at it incredulously. It looks back at me with cold, blue eyes. I rub my eyes, blink, and look again. It's gone.

_Oh well, no way a bird can fly as fast as an airplane. Must have been my imagination. _

I check for Logan's letter. It's still in my jacket pocket.

My stomach drops as the airplane loses altitude and lands.

**One hour later**

_I'm never doing car rental on-line. Never again. _

That's the only thought that crosses my mind as I lug my two suitcases out of the bus. It's been five Metro stops, three bus changes, and about a mile of walking between stops from the airport to the car rental. The axle connecting the two wheels on my heavier suitcase has long given up the fight. I've resorted to putting it on top of the second suitcase and pushing the whole lot together. My ribs and foot have largely healed, but they still send up irritating twinges of complaint whenever I maneuver the luggage over a step, pothole, or slope.

It's at an old, worn-out office which I finally end my journey. The windows are old-fashioned louvered glass. The door looks like it's been kicked in before, either by the police or more unsavory elements. The door's held shut by a bolt instead. The paint on the walls is faded. A crow caws as it flies by overhead.

I shake my head, disengage the bolt, and enter. I'm greeted by an old, bald Asian man. Liver spots cover his temples. His eyebrows are as white as freshly pressed linen. So are the plastic teeth in the dentures he displays as he smiles at me. Surprisingly, the interior of the office is a start contrast to the exterior. Fluorescent lights illuminate the room, a spotless ceiling fan spins overhead, and the junctions between the corner of the walls and ceiling are clean.

_I'm starting to feel a little better about this. _

The man introduces himself as 'Trusty' Tim. His words, not mine. Turns out, using the Internet had really helped his business compete with the larger car rental franchises around. I, too, know the value of information. I get the forms signed, pay the deposit, and follow Tim to the garage. He helps me carry the suitcase with the broken axle.

We stop at a navy blue Toyota Corolla. I stare at it incredulously. It's boxy, an old model, almost an antique. I think it's about twenty years old. Apart from that, the car is in excellent condition. It's spick and span, without a hint of rust on it.

"This car's been in my family for years. We've never skimped on maintenance, all the electronics are fine, and it has a state of the art sound and security system."

I motion toward the other gleaming, slightly less than brand new cars parked in the garage. A dark green LeBaron is parked not three lots away. I can't stop the wave of nostalgia from hitting.

"Can't I have one of those instead?"

"Not for eight bucks a day, you can't."

"Wasn't it ten?"

"A little discount for giving the family heirloom a spin. Check your contract!"

Sure enough, it's eight dollars a day. _Oh well. I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth._

I nod at him. He smiles again, displaying dazzling, too-white denture teeth. He helps me load my suitcases into the boot and returns to the office, telling me to call him if there are any problems. I'm starting to feel a little better about the car. The interior is immaculate, without a speck of dust. The upholstery is brand new. To be honest, the car looks like it has just rolled off the assembly line. The car even smells new. The odometer only reads just under a hundred thousand miles. There are power windows, what seems to be a functional air-conditioner, and an electronic security system.

I take a seat and start the engine. It starts without any sputtering, and stabilizes to a low, throaty purr. I'm really liking the car right now. It's basically an old classic, updated with the best in modern electronics. Even the side mirrors are electronically controlled. I smile to myself and try to move off. My foot contacts a third pedal. My smile disappears.

_Fuck. Manual. _

**Two hours later**

_I'm never booking accommodation on-line. Never again. _

I'm pretty sure most of Washington DC hates me now. Besides stalling at green lights, rolling back on slopes, and taking very long to accelerate, I've gotten myself lost. After stopping by a post office to ask for directions, and grabbing a sandwich at a nearby deli, I find myself in front of a tall apartment building in a small town somewhere between DC and Quantico. At least I think it's in Virginia. A murder of crows scatters as I walk past them on the way to the front door. I catch a flash of blue.

The façade of the building has a large flickering neon sign which says 'Stay-rite Youth Hostel'. It's a budget hostel franchise that's over the country. It's well known for being the one of the cheapest places around; however, their safety record could be better. And I've got plenty of items that I wouldn't trust inside such a hostel.

In fact, I've hidden all my valuables around the interior of the car. The box of surveillance devices lies in the boot, underneath the spare tire. I'd bought a packet of cable ties and secured several envelopes in various places around the car. Under the two front seats, behind the vanity mirrors… Cable ties. Never leave home without them. The envelopes contain most of the cash I've brought, Lily's necklace, and my earrings. I use one tie to bundle the remainder together, and toss the lot into the glove compartment. Maybe I'll find some use for them later. I lock the car and activate the alarm.

Just in case, I activate two of my locator bugs and hide them inside some socks. I place one in each of the suitcases. Better safe than sorry. And I'd rather use this situation as an opportunity to run diagnostics one more time on the bugs I've brought.

The clerk inside the hostel is a bored-looking young man in dreadlocks. His name tag says Bill. I look around the lobby as Bill processes my booking. The Stay-rite is hardly as well-kept as Trusty Tim's Car Rental. Cobwebs adorn the corners between the ceiling and the wall. Several of the ceiling lights are spoilt, the rest dim and gloomy. Half of the clocks hanging above the reception, each purporting to tell the time from cities all over the world, don't work either. Local time is half past four in the afternoon. If the clocks are to be believed, the time in London now is two forty-five, Delhi time is noon, and the time in California? Oh, the minute hand's missing, and the hour hand is bent outward, at right angles to the clock face. It reminds me of a beak.

"Miss Mars? Your key's ready. Keep your valuables safe, we've had a spat of incidents involving missing luggage, so I'd be careful if I were you."

"Why don't you just hire more security?"

"If I owned this place I would. But the boss doesn't feel like spending the money, so that's as good as you're going to get, unfortunately."

Bill hands me the key card. The key's a magnetic swipe card with a hole punched in it, and there's a lanyard clipped in the hole.

"One more thing… you're going to have roommates. You're a little early so you'll probably get to choose your bed, but make some space for the others. Just a little courtesy, you know?"

I shrug and move to the elevator. The suitcase with the broken axle snags the edge of the elevator door, and the wheel snaps off. _Great. I'll just have to get a new luggage bag before returning to Neptune. _I toss the detached wheel into the nearby trash can.

The hostel has a simple layout. Rooms are arranged in a rough circle. There's shared bathrooms, one for each gender, and a laundry room in the middle. Each room has four bunk beds and four lockers. Four power points are scattered around the room at inconvenient locations. It's almost Spartan.

_Great, Veronica. That'll teach you to be stingy. No privacy, shared bathroom facilities… this will be a fun ten weeks. _

_However, it beats sitting in a jail cell. _

I choose the top bunk nearest to the row of power points on the wall. I put my toiletries in the locker, together with two days clothing, my backpack, and snap on a spare combination lock.

_Looks like I'm going to be living out of my suitcase for a while. _

**One hour later**

I lay down on the bed, thoughts swirling through my mind. I'd showered and changed, but the combination of staring at an unfamiliar ceiling and trying to get my injuries comfortable against the lumpy mattress makes it difficult to fall asleep.

I power up my laptop. I create a new case file for Logan.

_First of all, suspects. Who had a bone to pick with Logan? Who could have benefitted from his death? God forbid, who has a bone to pick with me and could have used Logan as a way of getting at me?_

The first suspect is obvious. Gorya Sorokin. He's the first one I'd suspected of killing Logan. He's the first one whom I've exacted my vengeance. Because of me, Logan rose to defend my honor by beating him up in the food court, humiliating him. He threatened Logan's life. He told Logan that he was going to die. And Logan referred to their conversation in his first public suicide note.

I know Gory had an alibi for that night. But there's no such thing as an air-tight alibi. I know that Logan himself had come into contact with Lily on the day of her death, even when everyone thought he was still in Tijuana. Gory had the motive and he had the support of the Russian mob. Furthermore, even if Gory stayed in the bar throughout the day, he still could have hired people to do the dirty work for him. Being in the Mugger Toad on the Saturday of Logan's death could have been Gory's way of constructing an alibi.

_Gory stays on the list. Despite what I've heard, despite what I've learnt the hard way, he's still a suspect. Even though he's no longer living. _

Suspect number two. The Fitzpatrick family. Again because of me, Logan pointed a gun at the head of the Fighting Fitzpatricks during our first confrontation at the River Stix. The way the Irish mobsters value their honor? It's just a matter of time until they'd come and collect. Also, there's the matter of the yet unexplained beef between them and Dad… The last time I saw Kendall Casablancas was the day of my graduation trip to New York. Something tells me that her meeting with Dad had something to do with the Fitzpatrick family. However… Weevil once told me that the Fitzpatricks handle matters such as these far more brutally. In an alley, with a baseball bat… was what he said. The evidence in Logan's room all points to a suicide. This was the work of a professional. Normal thugs and muscle-for-hire wouldn't have the ability to pull a fake suicide off. Which leads me to suspect number three.

Clarence Wiedman. A few weeks back, he talked to me outside the Kane house. He told me that Jake Kane had told him to take me out. He was so kind as to persuade Jake to rescind the order. The night of Beaver's revelation and suicide? Aaron Echolls was found dead in his hotel room in the Grand. Two bullets, execution style, at point-blank range to the back of the skull. How convenient is it that on the very week that Aaron Echolls is acquitted and freed, he ends up dead, under extremely suspicious circumstances? I recall that day two years ago, as if it was yesterday. Jake Kane, straining against the arms of the deputies holding him back, screaming bloody murder. He accused Aaron of killing Lily. He told him that he was going to pay for it. He would watch Aaron fry. And fry Aaron did.

And Jake threatened to destroy Aaron's family and everything he'd ever loved. I'm sure Aaron loved Logan in his own dark, twisted way.

I'd worked with Clarence Wiedman before. I'd worked against him more. He's ruthless, efficient, professional. Him dangling Amelia DeLongpre's boyfriend, Mike, out of his dorm room window to extract a confession, comes to mind. Scruples are for lesser beings. I can just see Jake Kane ordering him to take Aaron out, just as he almost did to me. I know Clarence Wiedman has the skills to pull it off. Former FBI, army intelligence, god-knows-what special forces, he probably executed Aaron Echolls. He'd know the ins and outs of local law enforcement well enough to run circles around Lamb's ineptitude, god rest his soul. Both killings were in the same hotel, the Grand. He could have gotten in and out the same way.

Fourth suspect. Harvey Greenblatt. After Logan's death, he has been appearing on talk shows, doing interviews, writing memoirs. Not about himself, but about the Echolls family, fueling the media frenzy around the family, or what's left of it. Judging from the number of those appearances and the sales figures on Amazon, he's been making quite a lot of money from the media circus. _The backstabbing two-faced bastard. _The media has been so intrusive and insensitive that the once publicity seeking Trina Echolls had all but become a hermit since I last saw her at Logan's funeral. Thanks to Norman Phipps, my least favorite Vanity Fair journalist, Charlie Stone was not spared notice from the media. Last I heard, he'd changed his name and moved, dropping off the radar. I haven't been able to track him down to deliver my condolences yet.

Honor, revenge, pride and money. All tried-and-true motives for murder.

Wait. Something still remains. Logan's letter. My jacket's hanging from a hook on the wall. I can just reach over the safety railing on the edge of my bed and remove the envelope from the inner pocket.

The dark ink which Logan used to write on the envelope is a stark contrast to the whiteness of the paper. To: Veronica. I think that I'm missing something important. An important piece of the puzzle is missing. It's a sense of déjà vu. It's anything but pleasant.

That missing piece of the puzzle may just be in that envelope. I must know. I _need _to know. If you ask me, my raison d'être is the pursuit of information, and mere paper envelopes are no obstacle. My fingers scrabble against the opening of the envelope as the seal begins to tear…

NO. I'd made a promise to myself in the Grand. This is clearly Logan's last words. They're from him, to me. No one else. If it was a clue, he would have addressed it to the police. I'd open it when his killer is rotting in jail. This I swear. I close my laptop around the envelope, like a book around a bookmark. I place it under my pillow and lie down.

Of course, there's one more thing that could have happened. Occam's Razor. The simplest explanation is almost always better than a more complicated one. The crime scene looked like a suicide. The simplest explanation would then have to be that Logan _did_ kill himself. An overly complicated explanation would be that persons unknown crept into the penthouse, killed Logan and made it look like a suicide.

But if Occam's Razor were true, he must have cut himself shaving when it comes to the cases I've experienced. The death of Dean O'Dell. The death of everyone on the bus when it crashed. The death of Lily Kane. The death of… Gory Sorokin. In these cases, the simplest explanation _wasn't _the truth. The first? Not a suicide, but a superbly executed Machiavellian plot courtesy of the 'amazing' Tim Foyle. The second? Not an accident, but part of a plot by Beaver to use his history of past abuse to gain wealth. The third? Not a murder by a jilted company executive, but a web of lies created to obstruct the course of justice, and to protect the future of Duncan Kane, even though he wasn't the true culprit. The last? Not an accidental drug overdose, but… I'm not going there. Not just yet.

The more I investigated those cases, the more I found out. Lies were exposed. Agendas were revealed. I shone a light at the darkness of Neptune and what I saw was _ugly_. It is soul staining. Logan's death wasn't a suicide. It _can't_ have been a suicide. I don't believe it. Occam must have cut himself shaving again.

The sun's setting outside the window. The rays filter through the clouds and the dust in the air, turning the interior of the room a deep red. Almost blood-red. A bird flies across the window, its discordant calls echoing off the slightly opened window. Down below, the sound of voices, cars, trucks, wind makes its way through the crack in the window. It's relaxing. I allow the noise to wash over me, like a roller of a massage chair, a serenade played by a maestro. I snuggle into the bed. The first time I lay down, I thought that the mattress was lumpy, but now I realize that it just takes a little longer to get comfortable. My left foot is tucked into the blanket, and my right ribcage rests on a softer region of the bed. I feel dry and warm. And sleepy.

_Those people downstairs are probably my new roommates. I'll just take a little nap, then introduce myself, be real helpful… who knows? We might actually all look after our stuff together, end up as friends. Just a little nap. Yeah, I can wake up in fifteen minutes on my own; I don't need to set my alarm. _

I fall into a dreamless slumber.

**Tuesday morning**

**Veronica**

"'Scuse me, 'scuse me, wake up! Wake up!"

Someone's shaking me, fingers digging into my shoulder. My fingers grasp the first thing I touch. It's hard. I slam it into the intruding hand. Hard. The hand lets go.

"Ow! Fuck! Relax! I was just trying to wake you!"

_Oh. My new roommates. Yep, I'm being real helpful around here. _

Two guys and a girl stare at me as I sit up in the bed, stomach muscles cramping in protest. Yep, definitely my new roommates. One guy's white and blond, the other, whose hand I'd just bashed with my… I look down…cell phone, looks Middle Eastern. The girl's black, with shoulder length hair. All of them are looking a little anxious. The second guy? He looks a tad irritated. All of them are in their sleeping clothes.

"Sorry about that. I think you'd know better than to touch a girl when she's sleeping."

The blond guy cuts in.

"I think we all got off on the wrong foot here. First, some introductions. All of us got to know a bit about each other last night, but we didn't catch your name. You were sleeping and we didn't want to disturb you."

"Veronica Mars. Sorry, it's been a crazy week. Nah, scratch that. Month."

"Name's Seth. The guy you almost broke the hand of is Omar. The girl's Callie. Pleased to meet you, Veronica."

"Sorry about the hand, Omar."

"I don't think you broke it. I think I'll have to get it checked. By a doctor." Omar mumbles.

"And how exactly are you going to get it checked if you don't have your stuff?" Callie almost shouts.

"What's going on?" My reply. Me? Not a morning person.

Callie replies.

"Yeah, I don't know how to put this succinctly, but… all our stuff is gone."

Sure it is. My two suitcases, filled with clothes, are gone. I glance over at the lockers. Only mine is still locked. My guess? My roommates got overconfident at the level of security in this hostel that they didn't even lock up their valuables.

_Fuck. My laptop. _

I lunge at the pillow. I heave a sigh of relief as I find the laptop still present, and Logan's letter still inside. My wallet and car keys are still inside the pillow case where I'd hidden them.

Relief turns to anger. _I can't believe that someone would just waltz into the room and steal our bags when we're present!_ Granted, we were all asleep, but the audacity is infuriating.

_Calm down. There's no use going on yet another crusade. It's good that my paranoia has served me well this time. I still have my money stowed in the car. I still have my computer. I still have my equipment. I still have a day's change of clothes and toiletries secured inside the locker. _

_And I still have the bugs I'd hidden in my suitcases. Man, I really needed that shut-eye. Now I'm thinking clearly. _

"Don't worry, guys, I _just_ might be able to find out where our stuff is."

Seth, Omar and Callie look on with interest as I boot up the laptop and launch the bug interface. I've a far more accurate instrument I've kept in the car, but the bug interface on my computer would give me an idea of where to start looking. I can feel the edges of my mouth rise toward my eyes as the bugs relay their location. They aren't far away. Not far at all. I'm going to nail the bastards who did this to the wall. This I swear.

_A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. _

**A/N: **Please review! As those who have left comments will attest, I do reply to each signed review to discuss any questions and criticisms one might have.

**A/N2: **About Veronica's rationale for selecting her four suspects, do you think that it's plausible? Have I made the case for each suspect to… well… be a suspect? Do you suspect anyone else?

**A/N3: **Callie, Seth and Omar are _not_ original characters. Any guesses to where they are from?


	13. Chapter 13: The devil you know

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **As it will be apparent, Callie, Omar, Brady and Seth are Veronica's fellow interns at the program. They appear in the unaired VM season 4 pilot that's viewable on Youtube. Please do a search and watch it to see what could have been.

**A/N2: **If my alteration to the Great Seal offends anyone, apologies. No offense was intended.

**A/N3: **Through Wikipedia, it's actually pretty unclear what exactly in Quantico. I'm sure that's because of security reasons, and I respect that. So I've taken a few liberties with the internship program. However, what I've managed to find out is that interns do real work in the program.

_A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush._

**Wednesday, MCB Quantico, FBI Academy**

**Veronica**

"Welcome to the Federal Bureau of Investigation's summer internship program. As you all might have known, selection for this program has been _very_ competitive. As a result, you all here represent the cream of the crop of this year's applicants. Congratulations and well done."

The speaker's a man in a suit and tie, perhaps in his late forties. He has his hands on his waist, opening his suit, revealing a gleaming gold badge and a holstered weapon. His hair is starting to thin, and streaks of grey run through the black. His eyes dart around, taking everything in. They are alert, sharp, gray. A gleaming silver tie clip holds his tie in place. His security pass, hanging from a lanyard around his neck, is flipped the wrong way round. I can only see a magnetic strip, not his name.

Pretty much everyone in the building is dressed similarly. It's almost like a uniform. The men wear suits. The women wear pantsuits. No wonder local law enforcement calls them 'suits'. Apart from the handguns in shoulder holsters, I could have been in any busy office building in any business district.

I'm in the lobby of one of the bastions of American law enforcement. The FBI Academy. We're surrounded by federal agents. They walk past our small group, toward the elevators, some moving the opposite way. The academy is in a large modern metal and glass building. The lobby is lit by the soft glow of the morning sun which diffuses through the plate glass façade. It's ironic how they've selected clear glass to line their facilities, but the Bureau is anything but transparent. Secrets lie behind passwords, digital encryption, locked filing cabinets. Secrets which I plan on sticking my nose into.

The Academy itself is surrounded by one of the largest Marine Corps bases in the world. Headquarters of many intelligence agencies, both military and civilian, are located a stone's throw away from here. Why, driving here this morning, I had the dubious experience of having to overtake a tank on the way in.

Any normal person would feel safe. I'm in one of the safest places in the world, surrounded by law enforcement. Yet somehow I feel watched, scrutinized, observed. I shiver, fumbling the notepad I'm carrying, and my pen drops on the floor, skittering a few feet away. Suddenly what feels like twenty pairs of eyes are staring at me. Hands unconsciously slide into jackets. Muscles tense.

_Just a nervous intern. Move along. _A beat passes. Cold, impersonal smiles appear as I squat and pick up my pen. Hands go back to where they used to be. The agents milling around in the lobby go on their business. Something's got them on edge. Or maybe it's just how FBI agents are built. Coiled like a spring, ready to strike. The formal business wear belying constant vigilance and self-assurance. Agent Morris and Agent Wills had given me the same vibe. Always suspicious, always confident.

Overconfident.

The agent who's welcoming us gives me a patronizing smile, waits for me to rise, clears his throat, and continues.

"Year after year, the FBI has had great success from the internship program. This program is unique as it is unlike other summer internships. You will see _actual_ work. You _will_ make a difference in this organization. And no, I do not mean by serving coffee. I know that this program will be the crown jewel in many of your résumés. So you shall work for it. Rest assured, what you do here will be educational. It will be life-changing. The work you do will help us progress in real cases. And I must add, everything you see and do here is top secret and you _will _be prosecuted if you share this information with anyone."

I look around. The group of interns numbers about twenty. We're all clustered together. Everyone's listening to the speaker in rapt attention. Everyone's wearing quasi-formal attire. A few of the women are in long skirts. A nervous-looking guy with a shock of white running through his otherwise black hair is even wearing a tuxedo. The gender divide is about equal. So is the racial diversity. There's even a young women sitting in a wheelchair. It reminds me of a jury, if a jury were to be comprised of undergraduates. Due to my height, or lack thereof, I'm near the front of the group. Behind me, Seth shifts uncomfortably. Callie and Omar are somewhere around. I adjust my jacket, trying to loosen a crick in my neck. After catching the burglar involved in the thefts at the Stay-rite, I'd hoped that the management would treat us better, but no. The pillows still feel like they've been stuffed with pebbles. I feel my jacket's inner pocket. My fingers brush against the envelope and the other small object that's inside. I feel reassured.

Oh, did I forget? Turns out my new roommates are fellow interns. Way to make a first impression, by smashing one of their hands and appearing to be a paranoid weirdo. Up ahead, the man is speaking. I'm distracted by what's overhead.

The Great Seal hangs from the wall up above. It looks a little different, a little macabre. A large white dove, spread-eagled, forms the centerpiece of the coat of arms. It's pinned to the wooden backing with what looks like four large metal syringes, one driven through each limb. The wood is splintered, stained dark red. Broken bones poke out from under the dove's skin, visible through the sparse down of its feathers. A long, dark-green rubber tube is wrapped around the bird's beak, clamping it shut. The dove's right foot grasps a bunch of whitish-purple flowers. _Poppies_. Its left foot is caught in the chain of a pair of handcuffs. The wristbands are made of leather. The dove struggles weakly, blood oozing from where it's been pinioned to the board. It's still alive. And its wings are full of blood.

As I watch in fascination, a drop of blood inches ever so slowly down its flight feathers. It stops at the edge, grows in size, and falls. My eyes follow the drop as it falls, down, down, down toward the polished white tiled floor. But it never impacts.

When I look up again, the Great Seal is back to normal.

_Did I just imagine all of that?_

"All disciplines are welcome and cherished at the FBI. This is why, when you get to know each other a little better, you'd find some physics students, computer science students, more conventional Criminology students, sociology students, behavioral science students… We even have some students who are undergoing their pre-medical studies. We never underestimate the importance of information. Through breadth of discipline, we can discover new procedures, new motives, new clues. Sometimes this new information opens old cases, puts guilty men behind bars. Other times, this can result in exonerating a wrongfully accused party. Through our quest for information, we leave no stone unturned. Let this be known. We _will_ get our guy."

I think he looked at me when he said that. I feel my heart racing in my chest. My fingers play with the wire binding of the notepad, unraveling it. The pen I'm gripping is slippery with sweat.

"As you can see," the man looks down and does a double take. He chuckles and flips his security pass over, "sorry about that, my name is Special Agent Steven Holt, head of human resources. I run the internship program. If you should have any concerns or queries, don't hesitate to give me a call."

He gives us his extension number. The notepad creaks as I open it and write the number down. I wince and slot the stray wire back into the punched holes. The stray end, jagged and pointy, protrudes out of the notepad. I'll have to file it down later. I've got a multi-tool in my bag. I had to leave my switch blade back in Neptune. They aren't legal here.

"That will be all for now. Reconvene back in the lobby in ten. I'll be back with your assignments."

Once Agent Holt leaves, the interns start chattering excitedly. Several of the agents streaming in and out of the building give us seemingly genuine smiles. How many of them see themselves in us? How many of them used to be interns on this very program? I try to get my breathing under control. _Relax, Veronica. This is the first day of the internship. No one has any reason whatsoever to suspect me for anything. I was careful. Professor Landry didn't give me an 'A' on my paper for nothing. _

_But then again, Prof Landry's currently languishing in a prison cell._

A hand rests on my shoulder without warning, jolting me out of my reverie. I hit it with my notepad. Hard. Leading with the barbed binding wire. The hand disappears.

"Ow! Watch it, bitch! Fuck! I'm bleeding!"

The owner of the voice, and the hand, is tall and blonde, with short cropped hair. He's holding his bleeding wrist to his mouth. Everyone's looking at us, confusion etched on their faces. The agents transiting through the lobby stare at us with frowns on their faces.

_Fuck. This wasn't how I expected the day to start. This is it. High school all over again. _

"Dude. You got off lucky. She almost broke my metacarpal."

Omar's voice chimes in. He's beside the guy I'd just hit.

"I'm really sorry. But you should know better than to touch a girl out of the blue." I apologise and take a pack of tissues out of my bag.

"C'mon, I called you, like five times!"

"Don't worry. I've got this." Seth takes the tissues and leads the man away. The guy stares daggers at me as he goes to the toilet.

_Shit. Talk about crappy first impressions. Now everyone thinks I'm a violent psychopath, hiding in plain…_

I sigh and massage my temples. It's good that I had to leave my Taser at the security checkpoint; I probably might have given him the good news with Sparky 2.0 if it was still in my possession. And I know the Taser is surprisingly effective. The other interns are still pointing and whispering.

"You know, you're really quite something, Veronica Mars. That was Brady Holt. If the last name seems familiar, that's because it is. He's Special Agent Steven Holt's son," Callie comes up behind me.

I groan and cover my face with my hand. A bad day just got worse. She continues.

"I'm sure this is none of my bee's wax," she air quotes, "but are you sure you don't want to bug the tissues first before giving it to him?"

My other hand joins the first to cover my face. _It's official. It's high school all over again. _

**Yesterday morning, Tuesday**

**Veronica**

"It would appear that our belongings are within a hundred yards of our room."

I look up. My three new roommates are all staring at me with varying expressions. Omar looks pissed. Seth looks confused. Callie looks impatient.

"How do you know this?" Callie asks curtly.

"I placed an electronic tracking device in each of my bags."

"What's that?"

"It's a sort of surveillance device. It monitors its location so I can track it with this program." I point at my screen.

The red light representing the location of my bags blinks slowly. It's in the next building. I shut down my laptop and start to climb down the ladder of the bunk bed.

"Wait, so what are we gonna do? Just sit on our asses?" Omar whines as he rubs his hand.

"Well, we have to get our stuff back before tomorrow. The internship starts then, and we shouldn't be late." Seth says.

Wait. No way. It's too much of a coincidence.

"You guys on the FBI internship?"

"Yeah. How did you know about that? Are you going too?" Seth asks.

"Let's just say that we might get lucky today. Hold on a minute. I'll be needing something from my car. The tracking interface isn't as precise on my laptop, so I'll get the dedicated tracker. It's in my car."

"Wait. You _bug_ your own luggage? Exactly _how_ paranoid _are_ you?" Callie asks with an incredulous expression on her face.

She looks ridiculous. She's in night clothes, and her hair is all mussed up. And, I realize, with her luggage missing she won't be able to get it back in order.

Somehow I find that funny. I start laughing. I laugh until tears are streaming down my eyes and my abdomen and ribcage starts to ache.

I can't remember the last time I'd laughed.

"Are you high?" Callie asks over my guffaws, a frown on her face. Mom used to say that if I kept frowning like that someday my face would be stuck that way. Something prevents me from telling Callie just that. It's a couple of minutes before I'm able to control myself. By this time, my roommates are alternately staring at me and at each other.

"S…sorry... As I said, it's been a rough couple of months. And about the bugging, it's none of your bee's wax. What I do with my stuff is my business. Seth, could you call the police and make a report? I'll just go down and get my tracker."

The thieves have kindly left some of our footwear. I imagine that sneakers won't fetch much wherever our stuff is destined to be sold.

My jacket is gone. I sigh and fold Logan's letter into two. I put it in my sweatpants pocket. My cell goes into the other.

"Could you look after my laptop? I don't think being the victim of another crime today would reflect well on our desired future careers as federal police."

No one answers. They just glare at me. Both Omar and Callie look irritated. Seth's busy rummaging through his blanket, searching for his cell.

"Okay. Forget I said anything. Be right back!"

_My, some people must have missed their daily sunshine enema. _

I leave the room and take the lift down.

Bill's still working the front desk as I stride out of the lift. He gives me a long appraising look. No wonder. I'm still in my sleep clothes, sweatpants and T-shirt. He's not dressed much better, either. Today he's wearing a T-shirt that says 'I went to California…' on the front. I can probably guess what's on the back.

"What're you looking at, Bill? Call the police. I'm need to report a crime. The room I'm staying in has been broken into. All our stuff is missing."

_And I don't think Seth still has his cell. He probably can't call the police. _

"Whoa. That has _got _to be some record. Didn't you guys just check in yesterday?"

"Yes. You've got anything to say about that?" I mutter through clenched teeth.

Bill swallows and shakes his head. He picks up the phone and dials a number. I leave him to his business and walk out to the car.

Luckily for me, the car's just as I've left it. After all, it's been parked in the coverage area of a closed circuit television camera in a nearby bank.

I retrieve the bug tracker from inside the spare wheel in the car boot. I activate it. The bugs are very close. They are only fifty yards away. The police, when they finally arrive, will have no problem finding the stolen bags.

The red dot on the tracker moves.

The thieves are making a run for it.

Two options. I can follow my bags, or I can report this to the police. I look around. There's no one around. And I'm unsure of the quality of the Sheriff's department of this county. And I have something in my bag which I cannot bear to lose. I make up my mind.

_Better the devil I know. _

I pull out the Taser from the spare wheel. I ensure the cartridge is loaded correctly. I tuck it into the waistband of my sweatpants. It fits snugly in the small of my back. I take a few cable ties from the bundle in the glove compartment and put them in my pocket, with Logan's letter.

The red dot moves again. It's now on what appears to be a road. The road is parallel to the one I've parked on, just behind the bank. I move briskly through the alley and emerge on the other side. The road ends in a small cul-de-sac, and is empty except for a battered white van. The sliding door on the side is open. I can see the broken axle of my heavier suitcase through the gap between the door and the frame. A large black crow is perched on the van's roof. When it sees me, it caws in alarm and flies off. It has cold blue eyes.

There's no question about it. The thieves are trying to escape.

Someone staggers out of a nearby door. He's carrying several bags at once. Two backpacks are slung from his left shoulder. He's using both hands to support a large tartan luggage bag, which has three smaller bags teetering on top of them. He looks at me in alarm. He looks familiar. I smile at him. I don't think the smile reaches my eyes.

"Hi Bill. What'cha doin'?"

"Goddamn it!"

He drops everything he's carrying. I wince as I hear delicate objects crack from within the backpacks. _Probably some electronics. _The tartan luggage bag hits the ground, corner first. It splits open like a rotten, overripe fruit as it hits the floor. Bras and panties spill from the opening, together with other female clothes. A laptop slips out of the bag and lands in a puddle.

_Callie's not going to like this. At all. _

Bill lunges for the van door. It's locked. He searches his pockets for the keys, cursing under his breath.

Behind him, I take out the Taser. I flick off the safety. I aim. A red dot appears on Bill's back, between his shoulder blades. The back of his shirt reads 'And all I got was this lousy T-shirt'. I was right about the slogan after all. The laser dot settles between 'And' and 'all'.

Bill digs out a bunch of keys. He fumbles one of them at the lock, and drops the whole bunch. It hits the kerb and bounces under the van. Without missing a beat, he starts running away from me. The laser point stays on his back.

I pull the trigger. POP.

In a blink of an eye, two tiny darts embed themselves in the back of Bill's shirt. He's about ten yards away, so the darts drop a little below the laser dot because of the range. The first dart hits a little left of 'I'. The second hits the middle of the 'o' in 'got'. Bulls-eye. The Taser crackles and spits, and Bill goes down. His face smashes against the floor, and I wince as I hear his nose break.

"If Stan Marsh were here, he would say: this is why you don't fucking steal from FBI interns." I lecture the groaning Bill.

I sit him up and drag him to a nearby bicycle stand. It's in the shape of an inverted 'U'. Bill's starting to move again, so I give him another five seconds. Now he doesn't resist as I tie his hands behind his back, around the bicycle stand. His broken nose is bleeding all over his shirt front. The blood soaks into the dry white cotton. The red stain obscures the words on his T-shirt, turning California to 'Cal-nia."

"I've got to tell you, Bill. Cable ties are great. Never leave home without 'em."

Somehow I find the situation humorous. I start laughing again. I lift my head and see a black bird fly across the street and perch on a nearby street lamp. I laugh so hard that I find myself on my knees, clutching my stomach, gasping for breath, my eyes watering.

"You crazy bitch! Let me go now! You have the wrong guy, I swear! Let me…"

I pull the trigger one more time. He shuts up. I gradually stop laughing. The lonely street is silent except for Bill's groans.

_Oh well, time to get the police. _

I take out my cell.

**One hour later**

**Veronica**

The police have finally let me go from giving my statement. As it turns out, shortly after I left the hostel, Omar had gone down to the reception to repeat my request for the police to be informed. He had let slip that I had put tracking devices in the luggage. Bill disappeared shortly afterward.

_Smart thing to do, cut and run. But as it turns out, Bill isn't smart enough to realize that dumping the loot would be the better thing to do. _

A deputy fusses about Bill's condition. I shrug and say that he put up a struggle. I see the deputy comparing Bill's size to mine. He doesn't challenge my version of events.

_Good thing I'm petite. _

The Taser's back in my waistband. I'll have to replace the cartridge later. The bug tracker's dangling from my left wrist. I hear a commotion come from the left. It's Callie. She's in the middle of stuffing her underwear back into her bag, her face a beetroot red. Seth and a female police officer are helping her. Omar's facing away, squatting down. Callie's laptop is on the floor, open. A small puddle surrounds the computer. Omar's flicking the power switch to no avail.

"Any luck yet?" Callie asks while trying to stuff a coat of some sort back into her bag.

"Sorry. Looks like a lost cause." Omar sighs and closes the screen with a _snap_.

"Shit. Couldn't you just have let him go? You could still have tracked him down!" Callie looks at me as she exclaims.

_True. But I seized the opportunity. At least our stuff is mostly unharmed. Insurance should cover the cost of replacing Callie's computer. _

I open my bags where they lie on the pavement. The police have kindly helped to unload them from the van. I unlock the heavier bag. I rummage around inside. _There it is. _I heave a sigh of relief. I take out the ring box from where it's hidden inside another sock. I open it. I take the single puka shell that is within and clench it in my hand. The small seashell quickly warms to my touch. I smile.

_Is it crazy how something so small can provide so much comfort?_

I put it in my pocket, together with the letter. I take another look at Seth and Callie.

Somehow all of Callie's clothes fit into her luggage bag. Seth checks inside his own backpack. His face falls. He pulls out a camera. Shattered glass from the lens tinkles as it drops on the floor.

_Okay. Perhaps we didn't get away as unscathed as I'd thought. _

Omar searches inside his backpack. He retrieves a large packet of potato chips. It's perforated and crushed. He looks devastated.

_Word. I'm off to a great start. _

"By the way, why do you carry bugs around? The CIA internship's starting next week. Aren't you interning at the wrong organization?" Callie asks.

"Mind your own…"

"Bee's wax. I know. I can read." Callie points at my T-shirt.

I look down. Yep, that's exactly what it says. 'Mind your own bee's wax'. The shirt even has a picture of the insect on the back.

_Great day for a snarky t-shirt. No wonder all of them think I'm strange. _

I sigh and start walking out of the police cordon, toward the hostel. I put my heavier suitcase on top of the one that has working wheels. The wheels of our bags clatter as they move over the rough concrete of the sidewalk. Seth gains on me and picks up my damaged bag, carrying it on his left. Behind, Omar helps Callie hold one side of her luggage bag.

_Chivalry isn't dead, apparently. _

The pedestrian crossing light turns green up ahead. We cross slowly, encumbered by our bags. A large black crow blocks my way. It's cold blue eyes stare into mine.

I stop before it. I sweep my leg at it. It refuses to budge. I swing the bug detector at it. It takes flight, squawking its displeasure. I continue on my way. My roommates are staring at me.

"What?" I ask. Up ahead, the red man starts to flash.

"Never mind. Let's get across before the lights change." Seth hurries me along.

The nearby shop front is a polished glass panel. I can see Callie and Omar behind me in the reflection. They're trading looks. They seem concerned about something.

_Well, if my laptop dies on me, or my favorite snack gets crushed, I would feel a little concerned too. And it's none of my bee's wax. _

We reach the hostel.

**Wednesday**

**Veronica**

"Will all the interns gather round, please? Gather round!"

Agent Holt is back with a stack of papers. So is Brady from the toilet; he's holding a bunch of tissues to the back of his hand. He throws me a dirty glance. The other interns seem to have forgotten what had just happened. For the time being, at least. They're chatting amongst each other. Naturally, they had avoided me like the plague. From what I've been able to overhear, most of the interns come from the East Coast. No one seems to have had much investigative experience, save one guy who used to be a deputy while saving up for law school. There are sociology students, psychology students, mathematics and biology students. It's a veritable field of snowflakes, melting in the summer heat and gathering in a puddle. I look up and read the words on the Great Seal, written on the sash trailing from the eagle's beak. _E pluribus unum. _Out of many, one.

Agent Holt starts handing out the papers, seemingly at random. They're a sort of timetable, detailing a rotation between different departments which we will go to. It's a different department every week. I look at my schedule. It's personalized and has my name on it. Agent Holt obviously has already memorized each of our names and knows us by sight.

I continue reading. Apparently I start my rotation at the Technology Services Unit. Next week starting Thursday, I'll be joining the Organized Crime Unit.

_Just my luck. Hopefully I'll be able to get a look inside the FBI database. I'll need to conduct some background research into my suspects. _

I don't bother reading the rest of the list. I fold it up. It goes into my jacket pocket, around the letter that's already there. The letter addressed to me. The letter from Logan. The letter that is my last link to him left on this planet. The puka shell rolls about at the base of my pocket.

I want to open the letter. I _need_ to open it. But I've promised to wait until I've solved the case of Logan's murder.

The group of interns scatter, each going to their assigned departments. Seth waves goodbye. I give him a quick smile in response. Brady flips me off. Callie ignores me and keeps walking. Omar waits behind me expectantly.

"Omar? Don't you have somewhere to go to?"

"Tech Services, right? I'm in your group. I was just wondering if you knew where to go…"

_Great._

"Let's start by looking at the directions, shall we?"

The directory beside the row of elevators tells me that the Technology Services Unit is on the fourth floor. I hit the call button. The nearest door opens without a sound. The elevator reminds me of a mouth, with jaws of metal. I walk in. Omar follows behind me. The doors close. Omar starts humming to himself, an unfamiliar tune that I cannot place. _Of all the partners I could have been with, I get one which I've already assaulted, albeit accidentally. Wallace was right. I've already got enemies. I should feel right at home. _

_Oh well. Better a devil I know. _

**A/N: **Please review! I'll respond to any signed reviews.

**A/N2: **Steve Holt! Recognize the reference?


	14. Chapter 14: A day in the life

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **And here I am again with an experiment in using shifting viewpoints. My previous chapters have all been Veronica-centric, but I'd decided to bring the reader through different experiences of the different interns on the same day. Let me know how you find it! As usual, any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. I literally pull names out of a hat.

**A/N2:** Thanks for all the reviews and follows!

_Better the devil you know._

**Tuesday**

**Omar**

**Six A.M.**

BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEP!

"Fucking hell!"

The alarm clock begins cheerily blaring out the local news. The cherry red digits on the display tell me that it's six in the morning.

My three other roommates start to stir. Above in the neighboring bunk, Seth sits up and stretches. Next to me, Callie curses and covers her head with her pillow. Prickly as always.

"Make it stop…" I hear the muffled whimper come from under the pillow.

"Rise and shine, Farmer." I swing my feet out onto the floor. I thrust them into my fluffy slippers.

Up overhead, I hear the sound of a laptop being snapped shut. _Of course, Veronica Mars, the paranoid bitch. Does she ever sleep?_

Apparently we're the only residents in this hostel who wake up so early. That's why the toilets are deserted and we're able to get ready in about an hour. Seth and I stand side by side as we brush our teeth. Seth yawns sleepily as he gargles and spits.

Ow. I've nicked myself with my razor. A drop of blood oozes from the cut, just below my lower lip on the left. The cut stings a little as I wash it out with water from the sink. I'll be needing a plaster later.

Next, I wear my suit. Dad always tells me that personal presentation is the most important quality in working life. First impressions count. And part of making a good impression is to always dress for the occasion. I button up my blue shirt, careful not to crease the cloth. My tie goes on next, measured accurately to end just north of my belt buckle. Finally, I put on my coat. It's been tailored, a present from my mother for landing this scholarship. It fits like a glove and matches my pants.

I glance at the mirror. A smart, confident, capable young man looks back. I smile. This guy looks like he can handle what the FBI throws at him. However…

_I really need a plaster for that cut. _

**7 A.M.**

The four of us, two guys and two girls, walk out of the hostel. Veronica reaches into her pants pocket and the lights on a nearby car flash. It's her Toyota. It's looks older than I am, but it runs well. Next to me, Seth unlocks the door of his SUV and opens it for Callie.

Again, why am I sharing a car with Veronica Mars?

Callie and I didn't come very prepared for the internship, truth be told. We'd assumed that lodging and transportation would be provided by the Bureau. Lesson learnt: read the fine print. So I'm grateful to Veronica for kindly providing transportation to and from the Academy.

_Of course, she does owe me. She _did, _after all, smash my hand with her cell. It still hurts, come to think of it. _

I wince as the gears grind. The engine falters, almost stalls, but she manages to move out of the lot.

"What's the matter, Omar? Did you just have a close shave?" Veronica asks absently.

_What a bitch. _I touch the small plaster that's covering the cut. I don't answer. I don't need to answer.

The sound of the engine finally drops to a more comfortable level as Veronica _finally_ changes to the fifth gear. Silence is golden. I shift to a more comfortable position in the front seat. The back of my head sinks into the soft dog bone neck pillow that's wrapped around the headrest. My eyelids droop. _Oh, hello there, Sandman. _

BANG!

"What the fuck?" I exclaim as I start awake.

"Huh?" Veronica looks at me, a puzzled expression on her face.

I look behind the car. Far behind the Toyota, there's a dark object on the road. It looks like road kill. Old road kill. It's a rabbit or something. A few crows circle lazily overhead. Veronica's probably run one of the crows over.

"Veronica, I think you just hit a crow."

"You sure? Definitely, a hundred per cent positive?"

"Somewhat."

"Oh." That's all she says. I can feel the incredulous expression on my face as she keeps her eyes on the road, seemingly deep in thought.

We ride in silence to Quantico. I can't seem to get back to sleep.

**7.45 A.M. **

Yep, Veronica's definitely hit a crow. The unlucky bird's left blood stains on the paint. The solid steel of the bumper is dented. There are a few torn feathers stuck in the engine grill. Veronica only takes one look, a perplexed expression on her face. Then she starts walking briskly to the Academy.

I shrug. _Well, it's her car; she can do whatever the hell she wants with it. Me? I'm just grateful for the ride. _

**8.00 A.M. **

Work starts promptly at eight in the morning, here in the Technological Services Unit. The unit is in a small, brightly lit room. It's positively frigid in here; the air-conditioning is probably set to 'freeze'. It's likely because of all the delicate computer equipment filling all available space.

The first thing I see when I walk into the room is two huge stacks of files. Each is about two feet thick. Each folder is crammed with papers, photos, reports. There are two tables in a clearing. Each table has a stack of folders, and a modern looking workstation. A combination printer-scanner sits beside each computer.

I get it. We have to transcribe records, maybe perform some background checks. The past few days were no different. The new agent on duty, a middle-aged woman called Janice, confirms my guess. She tells us that we need to transfer the paper records into the new digital records system. And I have to translate some documents for them. She gives us a short briefing about how to carry out a background check, and warns us about confidentiality and operational security. We've had the same briefing countless times already. I think I can recite it from memory. She then leaves us to our work.

I look to my left. Already, Veronica has booted up the computer and has started reading the first file of her stack.

I've been brought up to be competitive. Dad always tells me that working harder, more efficiently, and with better quality is the only way a person of my heritage is going to make it in this country. I believe him. Ever since 9/11 opportunities have been affected for Americans hailing from the Middle East. However, I have witnessed both friendly acceptance and seething, irrational hate. It can go either way.

I flip open the first file on my stack. It's a dossier on one Mr. Abdul Shamim, filled with scans and photos of page after page of text I recognize as Farsi. _Of course they know I study linguistics back in college. _I boot up the computer and get to work.

To my left, the clatter of fingers hitting keys sounds a little like rain.

**11.45 A.M.**

I'm exhausted. My brain is on overdrive. I'm barely a third through my stack of files. And I know that my command of Farsi and Arabic is good, but translation takes a lot of energy. Nuances, tones, slang, disguised code words; it is a matter of pride that I detect every single one of them. I've identified a group of people who appear to be talking about a large 'candy' shipment doe to arrive in New York soon. I flag the file for future follow-up and move on.

So far, this work is tiring, but at the same time, oddly fulfilling. The Bureau has obviously tailored tasks according to the capabilities of its interns. That's probably why I have so many items to translate. I look to my left.

_Dammit. _Veronica's more than halfway through her stack of files. She's still typing furiously. The windows on her screen change periodically from the report she's writing, to the FBI database, and to some website called Prying Eyez, or something. She's like a force of nature. She's going through her work almost mechanically. Her printer spits out papers, which she files into the folders.

It's probably the coffee. She's got a mug of the stuff to the left of her keyboard. Wherever she goes, that mug follows. It's one of those cups with a hard transparent plastic shell which insulates the hand. Every now and then, the clatter of keys pauses, she takes a sip, and claps it back down onto the table. The relentless typing continues soon after.

Suddenly, Veronica rises. She exits the room, carrying he now-empty coffee cup in one hand.

_It seems that even machines have to take a break sometime. _

I peer over to her workstation. I see an open file about someone named Greenblatt. On the taskbar, I see several other windows minimized. One's titled Sorokin, G. The second, Stone, C. A third, Fitzpatrick, L. Another, Sorokin. The last, Odessa. I glance down at the open file on the table. It's a personnel file. The post-it on the cover says 'Recruit'.

Obviously Veronica isn't doing translating work. She's probably performing a background check on Mr, I check the cover, Schaefer. From Janice's briefing and my experience, doing a background check is no walk in the park. I look at the remaining files on Veronica's desk. Many of them have similar post-it notes sticking out from the stack. I'm suddenly glad to be doing translation work. Five windows for a single background check? I can't possibly multitask that well.

I hear footsteps outside the door. I quickly return to my table. My hand still smarts from where Veronica had hit it. A cell phone was bad enough. I don't want to get hit by a full coffee cup.

The door opens and Veronica walks in. I keep my head down. I look to the next file in my stack. I mutter under my breath. "Mr. Khafir. Let's see what you're up to."

The minute hand on the clock hanging on the wall moves, ever so imperceptibly, nearer to lunch hour. I'm guessing that we'd be performing pretty much the same tasks in the afternoon. And I still have most of my stack left to get through.

Oh well. I guess that's a day in the life of an FBI intern. I stifle a yawn.

_I think I need some tea. _

**Callie**

**12.30 P.M.**

Whoever that assigned each intern to each department needs to be fired. Or at least re-educated. Aggressively. Preferably with a hard, sharp object.

I say this because I've just spent the entire morning cleaning weapons. That's right. Cleaning freaking guns. Hardly what a business psychology major would expect to be doing. I thought I would be spending my first rotation with Agent Holt up in Human Resources, but no, I'm stuck in the armory cleaning weapons used in training.

I've never held a gun in my life, up to today. It's heavier than it looks, but still too light for something that could kill you. Or save your life. The submachine guns used in hostage rescue training are a different matter entirely. Big, heavy, ugly things. Oily, too. And the carbon scoring resulting from firing hundreds of blanks is a bitch to remove. I still have faint oil stains on my shirt sleeves, hidden under my suit coat.

Today's lunch is fried chicken wings and sandwiches. It's always sandwiches. I understand, it's literally the greatest thing since sliced bread. Well, of course, you need sliced bread to make sandwiches. The variance in the possible contents of a simple sandwich can be mind boggling. It's almost like soup, the number of different combinations of fillings and permutations of flavors, which originated from the simple idea of placing meat between sliced bread.

Of course, that doesn't make it any less boring if you happen to get sandwiches for lunch every day for the past week. When the internship ends, I don't see myself eating sandwiches again. For at least a year. Or two.

Lunch has been set up inside one of the many conference rooms in the building. Interns mill about, conversing in small groups. One of the larger groups is crowded around a beaming Agent Holt. He's asking each intern about their experiences to date, and sharing from his experiences as an FBI agent. The group listens in rapt attention. Me? My stomach is growling. I just want some food. I duck around the intern in the wheelchair, and help myself to several sandwiches and chicken wings. Mm. Smoked salmon and avocado. One of the better options I could have gotten.

On my right, Omar's deep in discussion to Agent Holt's son. Brady, if I remember correctly. Seth is nowhere to be found, as usual. Veronica…

There she is. She's just entered the conference room, coffee cup in hand. She picks up a sandwich and takes a small bite. She's obviously deep in thought. Her eyes flick over to the tray of chicken wings. She blanches, retching.

"Poor girl. She must've gotten the rotation at the morgue. Seeing dead people can do that to you. Me? It's my turn there next week."

I turn. The speaker's a bookish looking young man. He's wearing black rimless spectacles. He has a pleasant smile on his face. He extends his hand.

"Pleased to meet you. Martin Weathers at your service. And you are?"

I look back to Veronica. She's gone as abruptly as she'd arrived; the entrance to the conference room is just closing.

_Oh well, she obviously can take care of herself. _

I smile and shake Martin's hand.

"I'm Callie. Callie Farmer. Nice to meet you. Tell me truthfully, are you bored of the sandwiches they're serving us yet?"

He laughs and agrees. We continue to make small talk.

I know that internships are not all about work, or résumés. It's also about learning, broadening ones horizons. It's about networking. Getting to know future colleagues, bosses, subordinates. Interaction with the other interns is also _way_ more interesting than cleaning guns.

Martin and I smile as Agent Holt walks up to us. He's cordial and pleasant, asking questions and attempting to make jokes.

_Veronica's really missing out here. Well I don't care about her; there's still very many days left in the internship. Her time would come. _

It's just a day in the life of an FBI intern.

**Seth**

**8.30 P.M.**

I'm having the time of my life. Seriously, I'd never had thought that being stuck in the cargo hold of a van disguised as a flower shop delivery vehicle, listening to the input from audio surveillance devices, could be so much of a blast.

"You're here for one reason and one reason only. To make yourself useful. Our work here in the Organized Crime Unit is dangerous and time-consuming, but necessary and rewarding. Also, agents who might want to lead so-called 'normal' lives avoid the OCU like some STD. As a result, we need all the hands we can get. Welcome to the unit, kid, and good luck."

That's the only briefing I was given by the supervising agent at the start of my stint in the OCU. After that, it's been pulse-pounding. I don't know his name; he doesn't wear his badge. But the way the staff in the unit defer to him, and the confidence he exudes… the man is in charge, all right. The unit in Quantico is currently investigating allegations of corruption in the capital's Metropolitan Police Department. They've been setting up sting operations to catch these dirty cops, and I've had the privilege of assisting them in their investigations.

The operation started with legwork, on the first day. I don't fit the profile of the generic FBI agent, so they'd chosen me to scout out the meeting place. It's a dingy motel, right smack in the middle of one of the sleaziest districts in the capital. The purpose of the motel is obvious; they charge by the hour. The wallpaper is bright and gaudy, yet the smell of mold permeates through the air. _Just the place where an underhand exchange of mob connected drugs for police favors would take place. _

Day two was the start of the stakeouts. I'd followed the agent in charge as we observed a particular police officer, Officer Geoffrey Fallon. I watched as he entered motels not unlike the one I'd checked out on the first day. I watched as he left with his pockets suspiciously full. And I watched as the agent's face tightened in cold fury. I resolved to never get on his bad side.

Days three and four were spent on gathering personnel for the sting operation. I've never spent so long on the phone before. I had to contact the Internal Affairs liaison of the Metro P.D. I had to write a long and detailed request report for field agents to perform the arrest. Weapons requests. Audio and video surveillance requests. All manners of red tape. The supervisor handled the matter of the undercover agent.

"Undercover work is special. It's dangerous, _very_ dangerous. It can get you killed. It strains your family. The wife will hate you for it. Your son will forget you exist. Everything is made worse by the fact that you _cannot_ under any circumstances tell your family about your undercover status. I, myself, have just finished a long undercover assignment. It was not a pleasant experience, and I would not like to return to it. However, shall the need ever arise, no one shall find me wanting. For undercover work, while distasteful, is tremendously useful in building cases which will put away the very worst of human garbage. That is why undercover agents are protected to the best of the Bureau's ability."

That's what the agent told me before he went to contact the undercover handler. I understood it. It's no job for an intern to do. And I fully respected that. The past few days have been extremely busy. I'd not had any contact with the other interns, save for in the morning and, sometimes, at night. Of course, that's only if the stakeouts were to end at a reasonable time. And that seems to happen very rarely. But I've come to the FBI to learn. And it's been amazing so far. And the donuts that the unit provides are _delicious_.

Which brings me to my current situation. The supervising agent, another agent from the OCU, and I are hiding in the back of a van disguised as a florist vehicle. Electronic equipment lines the walls of the van. There's video feeds of the motel room where the exchange is about to take place, operational maps, photos of the suspect. The supervising agent turns to me.

"Now, Seth. Your job here is simple but very important. You are monitoring the audio of the exchange. The undercover agent will say a code word according to a situation which presents itself. If the suspect makes the deal, he will say, 'Mississippi'. If the deal's gone south, and his life is in danger, he will say, 'Colorado'. Is that clear?"

I nod. I raise my hand and ask a question.

"So this undercover agent, he's wearing a wire?"

"The undercover agent is not wearing a wire or any sort of bug. We, however, have activated his cell phone's microphone to _act_ as an audio surveillance device. Do you understand that?"

I nod. _You can do that?_

"Agent Doakes will be monitoring the video feed. I will be in contact with the arresting team. This should be a simple operation, but I expect there to be no mistakes."

I nod again. I slip the headphones back on. Static. It clears soon enough.

I hear conversation. It's between two people who call themselves Mr. Red and Mr. Blue. I presume one of them is the undercover agent and the other is the soon-to-be ex-Officer Fallon. _Wow, his last name already makes him sound like a crook. _

I hear a magnetic card being swiped in a lock. Up on the video screen, the motel room door opens, and two men enter. The first is the person in the photographs. Officer Fallon. The second is presumably the undercover agent. He's non-descript. He's not tall, not short. Average. If I had walked past him on a busy street I'd never have given him a second glance. I assume that makes him excellent undercover agent material.

The suspect sits on the bed. I can hear the bedsprings creaking through the headphones. This impromptu listening device is really sensitive, it seems.

Low, gruff voices come through the headphones. I don't know what they're talking about; a lot of the things go over my head. I hear the words 'Odessa'. They talk briefly about some place called Neptune. Code? Shorthand? Perhaps. I'm just listening intently for the code words.

The undercover agent reaches into his pocket and takes out two small packets of white powder. He hands them to the suspect. They shake hands. Their voices come through the headphones again.

"Good to do business with you, Mr. Red. Or should I say, Comrade Red."

"Mr. Blue, the feeling is mutual. So, as we discussed…"

"Don't you worry, Mr. Red. Now, to me at least, Odessa doesn't exist in D.C."

"Excellent, Mr. Blue. Perhaps I'll reach home in time for my river cruise holiday on the Mississippi."

That's it.

I yell the code word. The supervisor nods and speaks into the radio.

On the screens, the motel door opens and a squad of armed and armored agents enters the room and fan out. All their weapons are pointed at the suspect. The video quality is good enough to see his face. He looks completely gob smacked. I take the headphones off.

The supervising agent turns to me, a smile on his face. He slaps me firmly on the shoulder.

"Well done, Seth. I think it's been a great experience for you, has it not? When we return to the Academy, you're free to go home. We've a lot of paperwork to complete from this operation. I think it's best to leave it to paid employees of the Bureau to do it, don't you? Go home. Relax. Prepare for your next rotation. Our unit seems to work the interns the hardest, so you deserve the break."

I smile and thank him. On the video screen, Officer Fallon is being cuffed and lead out of the room. I muster my courage.

"Um. Sir?"

"Yes, Seth?"

"What's your nam… I mean, how may I address you?"

He looks surprised. He looks down his suit. He puts his face into his palm.

"Dammit! I keep forgetting my badge! And no one in the department seems to be able to simply _tell_ me about it."

He glares at Agent Doakes. Doakes shrugs and keeps his eyes on the video feed.

"My name is Special Agent Ramus, but please, call me Nestor."

**11.30 P.M.**

It's late when I finally pull into the parking lot in front of the Stay-rite motel. After bagging Officer Fallon, there were still a lot of procedures to follow, but Agent Doakes brought me back comparatively early. They're probably still at it, writing reports, filling out forms, debriefing the undercover agent, interrogating the unfortunate Officer Fallon.

I nod at the new receptionist, whose name tag says Jill. She winks at me and beams. Interesting.

I open the door to our room slowly, so as not to awaken my roommates. A diffuse white glow fills the room. Yep, Omar and Callie are already fast asleep, the former snoring gently. On the second level, Veronica glances at me and goes back to her laptop. It's the screen of the computer which is illuminating the room. I see the power cord running from the power point at the corner of the room, snaking around the bars which make the bed frame, and up to her computer. She doesn't give me a second glance as she continues typing, a frown on her forehead.

I quickly shower, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed. I climb up to my bunk, careful not to disturb the slumbering Callie below. I look over at Veronica's bed. She's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, back facing the wall. The light from the computer screen suffuses her face with an eerie, ethereal glow. On her left lies one of those reusable coffee mugs, with two layers for added insulation. The mug is disassembled, the outer plastic layer lying a distance away from the inner plastic lining which is meant to hold the drink. On her right lie a few small pieces of paper. Tiny words are printed on the surface of the paper scraps. Every now and then, she picks up a new scrap, studies it intently, and starts typing furiously into her laptop.

_I wish I had that cup. It would have helped tremendously on those history exams I never studied for. _

I rest my head onto my pillow. The past week has been a blast. I definitely would consider a career in the FBI, but perhaps not in undercover work. If the supervisor was any indicator, undercover work can be very intense. And I don't think I could take the stress. I'm too laid back for that.

I take slow deep breaths, trying to calm myself from the adrenaline rush that resulted from the operation.

_Whew. What a day! What a day in the life of an FBI intern. _

**Veronica**

**11.45 P.M.**

Revelation. Truth. Authenticity. I remember something, in the past. I'm flying, up, up toward a light. I remember thinking that when the truth is revealed, the truth shall set me free. After most of the rotation in the TSU, I know some truths. But these truths reveal more uncertainty, more questions, rather than answering those that I already have.

Directly in front of me, I can see Seth starting to sleep. His breaths come more regularly, more relaxed. I wish I could sleep, I really do. But there's much to be done. The notes I'd sneaked from the records department _have _to be entered into my case file. I return back to my typing.

While transcribing the FBI records and carrying out the requisite background checks, I was able to use my security access level to access some _other_ records. Records on the Sorokins. The Fitzpatrick family. Harvey Greenblatt. Jake Kane. Clarence Wiedman. Records on Charlie Stone, who I failed to track down. And records on Gory Sorokin.

Harvey Greenblatt. I've managed to obtain his financial records. His income as a result of Logan's death didn't register any suspicious bumps, and he's always been in very good shape financially. There were no large purchases or large payments anywhere near the time of Logan's death. And I know for a fact that on that day, he was across the country, in New York, attending a film festival. He couldn't have killed Logan. And it seems less and less likely that he'd hired someone to do it.

_I'll keep him on the suspects list just in case. Moving on. _

The Fitzpatrick family. There's not much about them in the FBI files. They cite a lack of 'local cooperation' and 'local case backlog' as reasons for the dearth of information. Heh. Backlog? Please. The way Vinnie's running the Sheriff's department, there's no way there could be a backlog. Perhaps a backlog of traffic fines, but not on organized crime cases. What I was able to glean from the database is that the Fitzpatrick family has become extremely successful since a few months ago. Coincidentally, that's when Vinnie won the election. Of course, that was no coincidence. Another tidbit: Kendall Casablancas, or Priscilla Banks, was reported to be missing, presumed dead. Well, you make your bed, you've gotta lie in it.

There's no proof that the Fitzpatricks killed Logan. However, there's no proof that they _didn't_. And revenge for pride's sakes rarely shows up on balance sheets. Liam's rap sheet _does_ include many arrests for assault and extortion, but nothing seems to have stuck.

The Sorokin family. Boris and Lev are in maximum security, which means my plan worked. Apparently the testimony of an unnamed undercover agent sealed their fate. I found that the Sorokin family is sponsored and financed by the Odessa mafia in New York. It is, or rather, used to be, the West Coast expansion for the Russian Mob in the country. The file called it 'a massive breakthrough', and 'a great coup'. Me? I think it's just serendipity. They got their big break because of me.

I gather that the FBI is now setting their sights on the Odessa Mafia. With the Western expansion crippled, they want to conduct a crackdown on the family, hopefully to eradicate them forever. Or at least severely weaken them. The files on the mob are locked and password protected. I can't access them with my security clearance level.

To my shock, I found a linked case file to the Sorokin family. There's a case file on the death of Gory Sorokin. I managed to access it. There's not much inside, merely a detailed description of the scene, together with an inventory. I know I was meticulous. I got an A in Prof Landry's plan-a-perfect-murder paper, after all. And after skimming through the case file, I don't see anything that I could have missed. The file is new, perhaps a month old. There are no suspects listed. The only name I can find in the file, besides Gory and the RA who discovered him the next day, is that of the investigating agent. Special Agent Nestor Ramus. I'll find out more about him tomorrow. I'm performing background checks on prospective recruits. Personnel records are just a click away.

The search on Clarence Wiedman and Jake Kane turned up empty. Clarence Wiedman's personnel file in the database seems to have been expunged. Nothing's out of the ordinary with Jake Kane's file as well. What am I missing? Am I barking up the wrong tree?

There is one more death that Jake Kane and Clarence Wiedman could have been involved in. Aaron Echolls. I pulled his file after the disaster at lunch. I'm not touching chicken again. Not after running that crow over in the morning. The post mortem revealed that he had been having sex just before getting himself shot. _Figures. That monster just _had_ to fuck someone after getting acquitted. And it stands to reason that the person he was sleeping with_ could_ have shot and killed him. The second person in the room was never found nor identified. _

Twists upon turns. Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. Now I don't know what happened that night in the hotel room. Is Clarence Wiedman even a suspect anymore? Is Jake Kane as cold and vengeful as I'd believed him to be; could he have ordered the death of his beloved daughter's boyfriend? More questions emerge. None of my original queries are answered to any degree of satisfaction.

I don't know what to believe anymore. Clearly I need to do more research tomorrow. I'll definitely have the time; I only have a few more files in my stack.

I'm getting tired. The words on my screen are merging with each other. But I must continue. In this quest for the truth, I will find no rest.

I open a new page in my case file. I title it: Charlie Stone.

Truth be told, I didn't put in enough effort to track Charlie down. I know that after the media fiasco Logan had put him through those months ago; it's extremely unlikely that a friendly reunion would have been possible. He moved and changed his name after Logan died. And according to the FBI file on him, he changed his last name to Rock. His new name was Charles Rock. Such a simple change, but profoundly effective. He moved to Detroit. And I remember reading his obituary in the news a few weeks ago. Turns out, he was a victim of a failed mugging in an alley. The cause of death was three gunshot wounds to the chest. 0.22 caliber. The killer was never found. I remember the pleasant young man that answered the door to the classroom all those months ago. He didn't deserve to die. Few people deserve to die, and he definitely wasn't one of them.

I resolve to take a look into the case of his death. It will be my next case after I find out who killed Logan.

I create a new page for suspects. I start to type Piz's name in. Piz could have been jealous of Logan. He was present at Logan's beating of Gory. He heard the exchange between the two. He could have…

No. Piz is too nice. He's too laid-back. He's forgiving. Perhaps, too forgiving. He would _never_ do something like kill Logan and make it seem like a suicide.

_Gosh, it's late. I need my sleep. Coffee just doesn't cut it anymore. _

The blood-red digits of the radio alarm clock read 01:00. The alarm is going to ring in roughly five hours' time. Just enough for a little shut-eye. I save my work and snap the laptop shut. It goes back under my pillow. I shred the scraps of paper and scatter them in the trash can. I slip between the sheets.

Thoughts swirl around in my head. I'm too agitated to fall asleep. But I _have _to. Running over crows, really? I'd never do that normally. I actually thought that crow on the road was a figment of my imagination. That reminds me, I'll need to wash the blood and feathers off my bumper tomorrow. Tim's not going to be pleased with that dent in the bumper…

I force myself to stop thinking. Stop thinking. Concentrate on not thinking. I feel my eyelids begin to droop. Despite my efforts, a final, single thought escapes my gag order before I fall into a dreamless sleep.

_It's just a day in the life..._

**A/N:** Please review! I'll definitely answer any signed reviews.

**A/N2: **I'm slowly bringing the whole fic full circle. The next chapter will be set two days from the end of this one, and it will be a blast, as I've planned it. If you've read the chapter carefully, you'd know why. And yes, the FBI _can_ hijack your phone's microphone to listen in on conversations. It just needs to be turned on.

**A/N3: **I _may_ be taking a break for the launch of Guild Wars 2. But if all goes well, chapter 15 will be up soon.


	15. Chapter 15: A Beautiful Day

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait! Guild Wars 2 is awesome. But not as awesome as writing this fic.

**A/N2: **This is a wham episode of sorts. It's definitely a change of pace over the previous two chapters. Let me know how I did.

_A day in the life. _

**Thursday, 1.30 P.M.**

**Veronica**

A warm breeze blows, making my open suit jacket flap in the balmy summer air. It's a beautiful day. The sun shines brightly in clear cerulean skies. Small clouds, resembling tufts of cotton wool, float in the sky. High, high up above, if I strain my eyes, I can see an airplane passing overhead, its contrail drawing a line in the sky, dividing it in two.

I'm on the roof of the FBI Academy. It's not the usual roof design, with utility pipes crisscrossing the surface and boring, grey concrete floors. It's actually much better looking. The floors are terrazzo, there are some benches around, and the centerpiece of the open area is a large rooftop garden. Bees buzz, birds chirp and plants photosynthesize. The utilities are well hidden from view, garbed in foliage. A small water fountain's in the middle of a clump of lilies, bubbling softly.

I like it here. It's a beautiful day. The riot of color that is the flowers blooming from the synthetic soil is a good reminder that summer is here. The rooftop garden, though easily accessible through a staircase from the fifth floor, is not frequented by the Academy staff. Maybe it's already too warm, and they'd prefer the air-conditioned comfort of the office. That makes it an excellent place for me to go when I feel like being alone. Or when they serve chicken wings at lunch. I still think of road kill every time I see a wing on a plate.

I'm standing at the edge of the roof, leaning against the chest-high parapet. A paper plate lies nearby on the ledge to my left. Two sandwiches are on it. I've already taken a bite out of the first. Smoked salmon and avocado. My favorite. I managed to get the last two before Callie snapped all of them up. I could feel her eyes on my back as I exited the conference room. To my right, my trusty coffee cup stands half empty. It rocks in the breeze. I'm on my lunch break. We've just had a debriefing in the morning. Agent Holt was eager to gather feedback about all our experiences in the first rotation. According to Seth, Organized Crime is pretty interesting. Good. Perhaps they'll have files on the Fitzpatricks and the Sorokins…

It's a beautiful day. My eyes drift down toward the cluster of buildings known as Hogan's Alley. Trainees are darting in and out of model buildings. The sound of gunfire carries over the distance. It reminds me of the sound of firecrackers.

I look up again. Two birds of prey are tussling in the air. One's a small, agile hawk. The other, a large, deadly eagle. The larger bird has an animal caught in its deadly talons. A mouse of a rabbit, perhaps? The hawk seems to be trying to steal it from the eagle. I have to admire the hawk. Its size belies its cunning; its status belies its audacity. But isn't it being a little foolhardy? Taking on a dangerous enemy more than twice its size, for a reward that would most likely result in its death?

The rabbit plummets to the ground. The birds bank away from each other as a helicopter blasts through the area they occupied previously. The aircraft is headed to the nearby airbase. There's always a bigger fish, even in the skies, it seems.

I sit on one of the benches. The sun is warm on my skin. It's just me, my lunch, my coffee, and Logan's keepsakes in my suit pocket, all alone in this paradise. I sigh in contentment.

It's a beautiful day.

**2:00 P.M.**

"…and excellence, and responsibility, and every single one of you has risen up to the challenge, taken the bull by its horns, set a high standard that I would expect to see adhered to…"

_God, does he ever finish his sentences?_

It's right after lunch. We're gathered in the auditorium again, after this morning's debriefing. Agent Holt is at the podium, waxing lyrical about our performances. He looks pleased, fatherly even. Far too nice to be the head of human resources. I wonder if he's this pleasant only to interns.

I look to my left. Callie's sitting nearby, looking bored. She glances at her watch from time to time. Seth's sitting next to me. He's focused intently on Agent Holt, lapping up every word. Up ahead, Omar's talking to his new friend, Brady. Their heads are together, talking in whispers. My mind wanders as Agent Holt starts on a long spiel about the history of the internship program.

Special Agent Nestor Ramus. Decorated agent. Several awards for bravery and service. I'd tried to research more about those awards, but I came up with nothing. It's probably below my security level. He's a goddamn hero cop. The last person I want investigating the death of Gory Sorokin. The FBI database came up blank when I tried to search for a home address, family, department. All I managed to find out was that he is currently stationed at this Academy.

_This is a first. _The Pryingeyez website I run background checks from is actually more detailed than the FBI database. I found that Agent Ramus has a family living in New York. He drives a Crown Vic, and has no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. Of course, there's no way a FBI agent can have a criminal record. He has a son, Tony, and a wife, Catherine. I couldn't find any pictures of Agent Ramus. Odd. None of the usual avenues work.

Oh well. I'll just have to search for him the long way. That means peering at everyone's security pass. And keeping an eye out as I progress through my internship rotation. Once I locate him, I'll try my best to find out what he knows about the case of Gory's death. And I'll try my best to lead him the wrong way. It's the only way I can stay safe.

"…Bureau headquarters is located in the J Edgar. Hoover Building up in D.C., which is, incidentally, close to one of the best donut places in the country, serving everything a pastry enthusiast could think of, cream, strawberry…"

_Yep, still on the same sentence._ Bizarrely enough, the presentation on the screen is showing pictures of muffins, fresh from the oven.

Aaron's death. He was shot twice in the back of the head. Forensics revealed that the bullets were 0.45 caliber. There was not much left of his face. Lack of powder burns at the entry site suggested that the shot was either from a distance or a silencer was equipped. I'd go with the latter. As I recall, witness accounts revealed that the neighbors didn't hear anything unusual. One guest, though, heard a woman scream, but didn't think that it was unusual at the time.

_Aaron's lover? Could it have been a crime of passion? No, the scream was heard _after_ Aaron's supposed time of death. She could have discovered the body. Could it have been self-defense? No, the shots would have come from the front. Getting shot in the back screams a premeditated killing. I'd have to revert to my original hypothesis: Clarence Wiedman, or one of his flunkies, executed Aaron Echolls at the behest of Jake Kane. _

Up ahead, Agent Holt is continuing on about the highlights of D.C. The screen shows a picture of the Smithsonian Museum. He's gone painfully off topic, and no one dares to inform him. I could, but I'd like to take this opportunity to gather my thoughts. To my left, Callie's got her face in her palm. Her lips are moving. Seth's still listening intently, taking down notes about current museum exhibits. Up ahead, Omar and Brady are quietly quaking in laughter.

_Liam Fitzpatrick… I'll need to harness the resources of the Organized Crime Unit to dig up dirt on him. Does he have the capability to fake a suicide? Does he _want_ to fake a suicide? Is faking suicides his _modus operandi_? Is there a motive that I've not considered that he may have for causing the death of Logan?_ _Is the connection I'm suspecting between Vinnie van Lowe and the Fitzpatrick family fiction or reality? And finally, how am I going to rid Neptune of the scourge of organized crime?_

Agent Holt has finally finished his speech. He gives us all a smile. He switches off the projector.

"Now for a pop quiz. Who can tell me how many different bird species are exhibited in the National Zoo?"

Everyone's stunned. Everyone has, like me, assumed that Agent Holt was just rambling off topic. No one expected a test. Everyone, except Seth. He consults his notes, raises his hand and gives the correct answer. Agent Holt beams.

"Well done, Seth. To all interns, remember this. The process of information gathering is on-going. You'll never know when something you've heard, offhand, might be important and extremely relevant to solving a case. In fact, small nuggets of information, correctly recalled and analyzed, can illuminate the big picture. It can let you see things from another perspective."

_Yep, under the façade of fatherly concern is a man who knows what he wants. He wants sharp, observant and intelligent people, and is not below using such methods to separate the wheat from the chaff. This is the last time I'm underestimating anyone from the FBI. _

Agent Holt wishes us luck in our next rotation, and dismisses us. Time for work. Time for me to dig up some dirt.

It's a good day.

**3.00 P.M.**

I'm crossing the lift lobby when Seth jogs past me.

"Agent Ramus! Nestor! Hold up!"

_Nestor Ramus? It's really a good day. I'll be able to identify him, tail him to find out his department, and formulate an interaction strategy based on my scheduled rotation. _

Ahead, Seth is talking to a small man in a grey suit. His hair is close-cropped. Seth is showing him something from his notebook. They're deep in discussion. I loiter at a pillar, checking my watch, brushing invisible lint from my coat, reading from my notebook.

Finally! They separate, shaking hands. Seth walks briskly away. Agent Ramus enters an empty elevator. He pushes a button. The doors start to close. It's time to make my move. If I walk in now, I can just pretend that I'm exiting on his floor. I can cross-reference floor numbers with department names later. I can also see his face. Carpe diem. Seize the moment.

I dart across the room; the click-clack of the soles of my flats echoes through the cavernous lobby. My hand blocks the elevator door. The door opens again and I enter. Agent Ramus is inside. His briefcase sits between his feet. His security pass is loosely clipped to his front pocket. He's reading a copy of the afternoon papers. He's only marginally taller than me. He doesn't look up as I enter. I turn and face the door.

"Sorry about that," I titter. _Third floor. He's exiting on the third floor. Organized Crime? Human Resources?_

"Not a problem." He answers. His words are clipped.

Wait. I know that voice. I _know_ that voice. I know that accent. I'd never forget it. I spin around. Agent Ramus looks up at my sudden movement. I see his eyes. I see his average looking face. Why, he could walk past me on the street and I won't even give him a second glance. But…

I see his eyes.

I see cold, blue orbs widen in surprise and recognition.

I see a stare which pins me in place, like a deer caught in the headlights of an incoming vehicle.

I tear myself away from that gaze. I turn back toward the elevator door, my salvation. It's halfway closed. I reach for the opening like a lifeline. No such luck. The doors shut. They seal my fate. The elevator starts to rise. I try unsuccessfully to pry the doors open with my fingertips. A nail bends. I don't notice the pain. I hear somebody whimpering in panic.

I see a hand appear from the corner of my eye. It pulls the emergency stop. The elevator grinds to a halt. There is no alarm. There are no security cameras inside the elevator. No concerned operator calling through a speaker in the panel, asking how we are. No. I'm trapped in a box with a psychopath.

I instinctively jerk away from the hand. I huddle in the corner of the elevator. My right hand goes to the holster in the small of my back. Empty. The Taser's still checked in at Security. Crap. My feet scrabble on the floor as I try to push myself away from him. The monster. His gaze prevents me from escaping. Or maybe it's the confines of the elevator.

"Well, well, what do we have here? I am pleased to see you again, Ms. Maine."

His voice sends chills down my spine. It's the way he says it. He over pronounces the 's' in Ms, and drags out the '-ine' in Maine. Suddenly, it's very difficult to breathe. I can sense the walls of the elevator pressing in on me. Squeezing inward. Crushing. I see water being squeezed out from the ceiling. I take a deep, shaky breath. I force myself to answer.

"The pleasure…is all yours, Pravda."

He squats down, bringing himself to my eye level. His eyes are still on me. He's shaved off all his facial hair, and much of the rest. He would have been unrecognizable if it was not for his eyes. Fresh waves of nausea and fear reverberate through my core as he speaks.

"Fancy meeting you here," he consults my security pass, "Veronica Mars. I actually prefer your fake name. But you do look better blonde. So, what are you doing here? Come to thank me for saving your life?"

Deep inside my being, a spark of defiance leaps from a frozen furnace.

"Save my… you DARE to say you saved my life? Which part of waterboarding, and hanging constitutes life-saving?"

"Ms. Mars," I shudder, "I am hurt. I am _genuinely_ hurt. You offered yourself up to the Sorokins as a sacrificial lamb. I could have done _anything_ to you. And if it were any other day, I would have. I could have used a power drill to remove your kneecaps. I could have put out your eyes, removed your teeth. I could have taken hours to remove all your skin, and then dipped what was left of you into battery acid. I could have started on your fingers with the humble nail clippers, and then moved on to using a hammer to extract whatever information I could. The only reason why you're still in a good condition is because of me."

I can't stop my teeth from chattering together. It's freezing in the elevator. The water from the ceiling soaks into my suit, chilling me to the bone. Pravda's words hammer into me like gunfire. What seems like _hands_ extend from the wall of the elevator and wrap around my limbs. I can't move. My heart thunders in my chest.

"What did I do? I chose the gentlest interrogation methods. Methods which leave no lasting physical damage. I did this because I called in the FBI in that day, and they could save you. You were already as good as dead once the Sorokins got you. This was the only way you could have gotten out alive and in a satisfactory condition."

_Why? Why? Why is Pravda here, of all places? Aren't undercover agents supposed to have a code of conduct or _something_?_

"So, let's make it simple. In order for all of us to be friends, we have to start with basic courtesy."

"Who the _fuck_ would want to be your friend?" I manage to spit out through chattering teeth.

"Tut, tut. Manners, young lady. Now, open your mouth."

My jaw creaks open. I can't stop them.

"Repeat after me. Thank."

"T-thank…"

"You."

The spark of defiance grows in size. It's more of a small matchstick burning out than merely a spark.

"Fuck off."

Pravda frowns. He pouts in a completely ridiculous way.

"Now, now, Ms. Mars. Do you want to know something interesting? After what you told us in San Diego, I took over the investigation into Gorya Sorokin's death. The good Sheriff was all too willing to transfer it to me. I went through the records with a fine toothed comb. You know what I discovered?"

I don't answer. I don't need to answer. Pravda shrugs and continues.

"Irregularities. Gorya was never known to mix drugs and alcohol. Not even at his worst. And I have a reliable source that assures me that the amount of drug discovered in his system would last a typical addict a _week_. Also, fingerprints were not found on the plunger nor the finger grips. I admit, you do good work, Ms. Mars."

_No. No. Nononono. _I can see manacles slowly lowering from the gaps in the ceiling. The chains clink as they rub against an unseen winch. A rope, tied in a noose, starts its descent.

"So, this is what's going to happen. You're going to tell me everything you know about the Sorokin crime family. You're going to assist in the investigations into Gorya's death. And you're going to be in jail for a very long time, I'm afraid. You won't see your parents. You won't see your friends. You won't see… much of anything, actually. Except the inside of a prison cell."

I remember something I've researched. Fuel. I take what I've got, everything I know, and throw the whole sopping, soaking, bloody mess onto the small, burning match that's all that's left of my defiance. It catches fire. The flame becomes an inferno. My teeth stop chattering. My heart still hammers within my chest. I reply.

"You _sick_ bastard. You may have entered the Sorokin family as an undercover agent, but that will _never_ excuse the crime _you_ have committed for them. Where does _blending in_ stop and crime start? When you kill your victims, mutilate their bodies, dispose of them to hide the evidence of the Sorokin's crimes… Those are crimes. That is murder. That is spoilage of evidence. You have _no_ right to judge me."

Pravda blinks in surprise. He opens his mouth to argue. I interrupt.

"What's your body count, huh? _Pravda_? Five? Ten? A score? Hundreds? You are the fucking _devil_ in a human guise. You're the sicko who gets a hard-on while torturing a helpless teenage girl."

Pravda actually looks _regretful._

"I…I'm sorry about that. I keep things impersonal. I have a life outside of work, you know. I maintain a strict dichotomy between how I act undercover and out of work."

"I don't care about that. If you have me investigated, or do _anything_ with regards to the Gory case, save for closing it, I'll tell your superiors about what you actually did for the Sorokin family. I'll tell all about what you did to _me_. And you _will_ be ruined. How many murders can you escape by claiming that it was part of the job?"

"In fact, you're mistaken. My superiors know all about my activities. I file very detailed reports. Everything I did was sanctioned by the Bureau."

He gives me a smug, self-satisfied smile. He thinks he's won. Well, I still have an ace in the hole. The chains descending from the ceiling tinkle and clang. The noose creaks as it absorbs the water streaming down from the ceiling. _I cannot go to prison._

"Fuck you. Fuck you and everything this organization stands for. I don't want to be in a force that condones murder for the sake of a case. I'm _through_ with the FBI."

"Is it only me that sees the irony in that statement…"

"Shut up. I wrote an essay on how to plan a perfect murder for a Criminology class. I just quoted it to satisfy Lev and Boris. That's the extent of my involvement in Gory's death. You have _nothing_ on me. But I have something on you. Tell me, Pravda, how's Catherine? How's Tony? I hear he's just started middle school."

Pravda blanches. His gaze falters. He shifts his eyes from mine. Good. I can think when I'm not under that gaze. I gain impetus and continue.

"You come after me or continue in your Gory investigation, certain folks in New York are going to receive an anonymous letter. They're going to know you and your family's names, your spending habits, your locations, routines. They're going to know that you _singlehandedly_ destroyed their precious West Coast expansion. And believe me, from what I hear, Odessa doesn't fuck around."

He starts as if to argue, but I cut him off. I'm unstoppable.

"What would you like, Pravda? Imagine your beautiful wife without her eyes. Unable to walk. Tortured and left to die. Or even worse, kept alive. Imagine sweet, innocent Tony. Unsullied from all of the corruption you and I deal with every day. Unspoiled. Imagine him without his skin, treading battery acid. How would you like that, huh?"

Nestor stares at me in shock. He starts to blubber something about the Witness Protection Program.

"The Witness Protection Program is bullshit. I've found someone being protected before. It's not as secure as they make it out to be. It's not as hard to find people as they make you believe. And if you know me at all, when you read my file, as I'm sure you're going to do, you'll discover that I can find _anything._"

Nestor looks like he's in shock. The righteous fire burns within me, keeping me safe from the icy water dripping from the ceiling, pooling on the floor. Strangely enough, Nestor's clothes are dry. I struggle to my feet, swaying unsteadily. My heart still races in my chest. I rip off the security pass from Nestor's lapel and stuff it in my coat. If he chooses to pursue me, I can at least slow him down a little. I slap the emergency stop button, and the elevator continues its ascent. I press the button for the first floor. The lift slows, stops. The doors grind open. A few agents mill about outside. They look at the elevator in surprise. Yep, I bet a flooded elevator with handcuffs dangling from the ceiling would dumbfound anyone. But when I look back to the interior of the elevator, all I see is Nestor squatting on the floor, leaning against the elevator control panel, looking defeated. His briefcase lies forgotten in the middle of the floor.

_Did I imagine all that?_ I shake my head. I turn to Pravda. I make a horned-hand sign.

"You mess with the bull…"

I turn on my heels and walk away. I don't look back. I don't dare to look back. My heart is still racing, thumping within my chest. I feel a little faint. My adrenaline is running out. I feel like I've gone ten rounds with a boxer. But I've lived to tell the tale. Hopefully I've spooked Nestor enough to make him back off. Hopefully that's enough for me to escape this place.

The hallway looks _different_. Strange, fleshy growths protrude from the ceiling, like organic… stalagmites? Stalactites? I can never remember which is which. Red, sticky, viscous liquid drops slowly from the lowest points of the growths. The white paint on the wall is splashed with dull, rusty brown stains. The red liquid soaks into the dark blue carpet. It squishes as I walk on it. The lights overhead are dim, flickering. Some of the bulbs are blown or out. The agents walking about in the hallway don't seem to notice the growths, or the wetness of the floor. They notice me, however. They're all pointing and whispering.

"Vicky Maine."

"Vicky Maine's here."

"Finally."

"Veronica is Vicky."

"Mars is Maine."

"Vicky."

"Vicky."

"Vicky."

_Fuck. My secret's out. I've got to get out of here. Fast. _

I start running, darting through gaps between agents. I run past an agent carrying a stack of files. My shoulder clips it, sending some folders cascading to the floor.

"Hey, watch it!"

_At least he isn't calling me Vicky. _I keep running until I reach the utility staircase.

If I go down… the main lobby is full of agents. There's a security point to clear. No, I can't go there. I must go up. It's safer the higher you go. Isn't it?

Click-clack-click-clack. I take the stairs two at a go. The handrails are slick with the red liquid. I wipe my hands on the front of my coat. It leaves a red stain. It looks a little like blood.

I clear four floors. I burst out into the rooftop garden. My paradise. My refuge. My haven. I gape in dismay.

The garden is ablaze. Once-beautiful flowers dry out, shrivel and die in the heat. A small tree explodes nearby and I flinch. A hummingbird, feathers on fire, tries in vain to extinguish itself in an ornamental fountain. It fails. The water goes still. Only cinders remain. The smoke that fills the air is thick, cloying, choking. I can't stop coughing, choking on my saliva. I raise my head and gasp. The sky is _filled_ with crows. The cacophony is deafening. The cloud of birds is thick enough to block out the sun. I can only see a huge mass of beating wings, ebony bodies and black, beady eyes. I shiver. I've never seen a flock of crows this big before. Something major must have happened.

SQUARRRRK!

I start in surprise. To the left, perched on the edge of the parapet, is a very familiar crow. It has very familiar eyes. Eyes that are cold, soulless. Eyes that are icy blue. Eyes that radiate restrained violence and malevolence. Now I know why the crow's so familiar. I've met the owner of those exact same eyes.

"Get the _hell_ away from me!"

I pick up a heavy-looking glass ashtray from the floor. I hurl it at the bird. Surprisingly, it weighs nothing. But it tumbles through the air, hitting the edge of the parapet just a few inches from the crow's foot. It shatters into a thousand pieces. The crow _squarrks_ its displeasure and takes flight. I see a flash of blue as it rises up to join its brothers.

BANG!

I jump as the closed access door is suddenly rammed from behind. The hinges hold. The lock holds. _Strange. I don't remember locking the door. Or closing it, for that matter. _A throaty growl rises, louder, louder, LOUDER, drowning out the din of the birds. The sound reverberates in my bones.

I didn't think my heart could beat any faster. I'm proven wrong.

_Fuck. I'm trapped. All alone, on the rooftop with no way out? This is the end of the road, Veronica. _

Wait. My skin starts to itch. White feathers start sprouting from my arms and body. I remember this. I've done this before. I take off my shoes and socks and climb on the parapet. Left foot first, then right. I stand up straight. The landscape spreads out below me. I spread my arms. I wave them in the air experimentally. The feathers catch the air. They should be able to support my body soon. Then I will fly away, past the murder of crows into the light they currently obscure. Then, perhaps, I can leave this strange, confusing world behind.

Oh yeah, how do I fly with a suit coat on? I chuckle at my bird-brained behavior. My arms slip out of the sleeves. Left, then right. I feel _something_ in the inner pocket. A rectangular piece of paper, perhaps an envelope, and something which feels like a small rock.

_Of course. Logan's letter. Now, how do I bring it with me? Pants pockets? _

I look down. Already, feathers cover my fingers. There's no way I'm going to be able to manipulate the envelope to fit into the smaller pants pocket. There's no other way. I'm going to have to read it.

The well-worn paper gives way easily. The envelope disintegrates along the lines where I'd folded and unfolded it, day after day, resisting the temptation to open it.

But in order to make my escape, I cannot bring any baggage along.

I unfold the sheet of paper and cast the tattered remains of the envelope into the wind. I can feel a small smile on my face as my eyes start reading the rows of neat, familiar handwriting. I continue reading. The bashing of the door, the thunderous growl, the discordant cawing overhead all fade away into the background as I read Logan's letter. My heart flutters in my chest. I feel tears rolling down my face.

_Dear Veronica,_

_I knew you would be able to find this letter. You're really quite something, aren't you? I'm leaving this note because I'm not going to have my most private and intimate thoughts, my final goodbye, locked away in some police locker under some random item number. This note is for you and you only, so that you may know that I'm sorry. _

_I'm sorry, Veronica. I'm sorry for causing you so much pain. I'm sorry for causing you so much suffering. I'm sorry for beating up Piz. I know that you two are meant to be together. I have no right to come between you two. _

_I'm sorry, Veronica, for beating Gory up. I'm sorry for causing you to worry. I'm sorry for acting like a psychotic jackass, for thinking with my hormones rather than my head, talking with my fists instead of my tongue. And I'm sorry for acting like my father, who has caused you unbearable pain. _

_I'm sorry, Veronica, for encroaching on your privacy. I'm sorry for hiring protection without notifying you first. I'm sorry for ever doubting that you can take care of yourself. I'm sorry for underestimating you. _

_Last of all, I'm sorry, Veronica, for having taken you for granted, and for letting you down, time after time. I never knew what I had till it was gone. _

_I thought our story was epic. Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. No one writes songs about the ones that come easy, you know? But now I know that a relationship shouldn't be that hard. If it's so hard, it's just not meant to be. _

_It's funny. Trina was right. Putting my thoughts down on paper really makes me feel better. Or maybe it's just the whiskey. Trina's right about so many things, you know? I can never stop being Aaron's son. I will never treat my own children normally. The cycle of violence has to end somewhere. _

_I know that you're feeling sad right now, Veronica, but don't be. If you feel like your world is ending, talk to Trina. She's the only member of my family who will talk to me now. She's very understanding. Charlie's still ignoring my calls. I wonder how he's doing?_

_So Veronica. Stiffen up that upper lip. Go on with life. Don't take revenge for me, as there is no one to blame but myself. Live a long, peaceful, normal life. Flee from violence and injustice. Don't shed too many tears for me when I'm gone. And may we meet again in a much better place._

_Love, _

_Logan._

I'm openly sobbing as I read Logan's final words. I read it again. And again. Wait. Trina. _Trina?_ What is she doing in the letter? As far as I know, Trina had not been in contact with either Logan or I. Was she secretly communicating with Logan? Did he keep his relationship with Trina a secret from me? What could she have to do with Logan's death? How could I have missed her?

Of course. She had the ultimate motive. With Lynn and Aaron dead, Logan had the entire Echolls fortune in inheritance. With Logan out of the picture, the remainder of the family assets will, of course, fall under the control of the remaining family members. With Charlie's unfortunate demise…

Unfortunate, my ass. Events have unfolded way too smoothly in Trina's favor in these few months. In this regard, Occam's Razor works perfectly. It's inconceivable that so many of the Echolls family members would perish under suspicious circumstances, under such a short period. It cannot be coincidence.

This bumps her up to my number one suspect, in the case of the murders of both Logan and Charlie Stone. I look back down at the letter. Small drops of moisture are soaking into the paper, forming little dark circles. I touch the circles with my fingers. The feathers are gone. I wipe my eyes. I look up.

The sun shines overhead like the world's brightest light bulb. There is nary a cloud in the glorious sapphire sky. A helicopter buzzes by overhead. I turn around. The rooftop garden is, as usual, devoid of people. The doors that lead to the access stairwell are wide open. The cheery colors of the blossoms contrast pleasantly with the emerald-green grass. The small fountain bubbles merrily. A small hummingbird buzzes by, spending a few seconds sipping from a flower, and then moving on to the next. It's delightful. It's all a bit _low_, though, almost as if I'm suddenly much taller…

I look down. My head swims as I see where I'm standing. I can see just past my bare left foot. The drop off the parapet is five stories. I see a torn and tattered envelope far, far down below. _I'm standing on the fucking parapet. What the hell am I doing?_ I crouch, shaking, as I climb slowly back behind the parapet, letter scrunched up in my hand. My heart's still racing. I'm taking short, quick breaths.

I sit on a bench to catch my breath. It's about five minutes before my heart rate approximates normal. I force myself to slow my breathing. There's no use suffering a panic attack, especially not right now. I need to formulate a plan of action. Some way of investigating Trina and her connection to Logan's, and possibly Charlie's deaths. And some way of eluding the FBI as well.

I've got it. I know what's my next step, what I need to do to prove Trina's guilt. I reach into my suit pocket and retrieve Nestor's security pass. I feel a smile spread across my face. At last, a target. At last, something I can pour my energy into investigating. The internship program ends now. For I am on the most important case of my life. I need to know the truth. When I know the truth, the truth shall set me free.

I breathe in the pleasant smell of wildflowers. There is a hint of smoke beneath the sweetness.

_It's a beautiful day indeed. _

**A/N:** Please review! I'll definitely reply to any signed reviews. And stay tuned!

**A/N2: **So. Trina. Thoughts? Was I too obvious? (unlikely) Was I not obvious enough? Is Trina being involved with Logan's death surprising or just bizarre? I didn't just pluck her out of thin air. I planned the story this way all the way from chapter 1, to make her somewhat involved in Logan's death.

**A/N3: **And so the significance of the blue-eyed crow is revealed. Pravda/Nestor is an original character harkening back to chapter 8. Read chapter 8 again for details of their prior… relationship. Did you guess that Nestor Ramus was Pravda? Or did you pick the red herring Gustav? Was I too obvious? Not obvious enough? Also, I realized that Nestor Ramus sounds like Nostradamus, a French seer. That was unintended, I really pulled his name out of a hat.


	16. Chapter 16: The Truth

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews for the last chapter! And sorry for taking a little longer for this update; work has kept me busy. And I was struggling with a slight case of writer's block. Knowing _what_ you're going to write doesn't necessarily mean you know _how _you're going to write it.

**A/N2: **This chapter is mostly informative, and is slightly longer than the previous chapters. There's less drama and action, but the interaction between Trina and Veronica is important nonetheless. I'm not that good at dialogue, so I'm a little nervous about that section, but what the hell. Practice makes perfect, right?

_It's a beautiful day._

**Thursday**

**Veronica**

_This better work._

The security pass slides easily through the reader. The LED flashes red. _Shit. _I take the card out, wipe it between sweaty fingers and dry it on my shirt. I try the card again. Red. _Fuck. _

I'm running out of options. I'm standing outside the door leading to the permanent staff offices, trying to get in. About twenty yards behind me, two agents are walking towards me, talking to each other. _I need to get this door open. It would look terribly suspicious if I were to be caught with Agent Ramus' security pass in my hands, trying to access his office…_

The card reader is set at about waist height, next to a clear glass door. The reader isn't the kind I'm accustomed to seeing. Perhaps they use a different card reader for different security clearance levels. Interns only get to use the cheap stuff. The reader's a vertical slit with an unlit LED on the side. I assume that green means go, red means access denied. Typical. There are no other markings on the reader, no indicators to tell me which way to insert the card.

Here goes. Either I've been inserting the card the wrong way, or Agent Ramus has already alerted security and reported his card stolen. I reverse the card so that the magnetic strip faces the other way. I slide it through the card reader again.

Beep.

I breathe a sigh of relief. The door opens easily and I slip inside. I close the door behind me. Let those agents use their own security passes to gain access. I'm not letting them see my face. I walk down the corridor until I encounter some doors.

To my left, a white door is set in a pastel blue wall. There's a name plaque stuck into the wood. Black letters engraved in brushed aluminum. The room code is engraved next to the name.

"Special Agent Henry Doakes. Nope, you're not Pravda."

To the right, another white door is set in the same boring pastel blue wall. Rather out of place, on either side of the doorframe hang two framed pictures. The one on the left is a beautiful photo of a sunrise at a beach. The sun's rays reflect off the glistening sand, moistened by the wash of the incoming tide. There are no clouds in the sky. A small sailboat, the bright colors of the sail rendered indistinct by the brightness of the rising sun, is the only thing visible on the ocean. Two dark figures, silhouetted against the sun, are walking in the sand. One's a woman, the other's a child. Boy or girl, I cannot tell. The picture's framed in wood. Not cheap plywood, like something you'd get at a discount from Ikea, but a rich, deep colored material that is probably some kind of hardwood.

On the right, the picture is a photograph of a setting sun. The setting isn't at a beach, however. It's in the mountains. Clouds fill the sky; the sun's rays stain the white cottony clouds with a deep, rich red. Like wine soaking through wool. Yes, definitely wine. Not any other liquid. Pines cover the mountains in the photograph, tall, straight, reaching for the heavens. Far away, sheltered under one of the trees, there's a small picnic table under one of the pine trees. I squint at the picture. Two figures sit on it, but the table seems to be set for three. One figure's larger than the other, but I can't make out their features. A woman? A child? The same people in the other photograph? In the foreground, there's a stump of a tree, recently felled. A large pocket knife, opened, is embedded, tip first in the stump. The color of the sky reflects off the steel of the blade. This picture is framed, not in wood, but in metal.

I shake my head. _Enough looking at pictures._ The brushed steel plaque on the door reads: "Special Agent Nestor Ramus". I slip the security pass into the card reader. In the correct direction, this time. The door opens without incident. I hold my breath as I enter my adversary's lair.

Dare I say, it looks… _homely_. A standard issue work desk, similar to what I'd used in the Technological Services Unit, faces the door. A simple plush office chair sits on its rollers behind the table. Dark purple, with dark green stripes running down diagonally, top left to bottom right. A workstation occupies about half the table room. The other half is occupied by a name plaque, a thick stack of reports, a vase with fake plastic flowers. There's also a pen cup on the desk. It's made of clay, clearly not done by a professional. I can see the indentations of the small, pudgy fingers which gave it shape. Inside the pen cup lies some stationery.

And the walls… the walls are adorned with sublime photographs of landscapes. A lush green paddy field, with farmer-led buffaloes plowing the soil. Sunrise at the Taj Mahal. The Grand Canyon in all its glory. _The photographer sure has an eye for beauty. _

Something catches my eye. Sandwiched between the work desk and the wall are some framed pieces of paper. I pull them out. Awards for bravery, valor, long service…Why aren't they occupying places of honor, hanging on the walls? As far as I know, anyone in law enforcement will die for one of these. I replace the awards. _Oh well, it's none of my bee's wax. And I'm getting sidetracked. Time's running out. _

I sit on the chair. I barely have to adjust it. I look at the screen and smile. There's a few post-its stuck to the monitor. One says: "Nestor: Don't forget your security pass again! Mandy". The one below it says: "Nestor: You wife called. Cheese or ham or both in your sandwich? Mandy." The last one… "Nestor: Stop forgetting your password! I've reset it, and it's now…" a random assortment of upper and lower case letters follows.

Just my luck. I switch on the computer. While waiting for the computer to boot up, my eyes wander to the folders on the desk. Lev Sorokin, Boris Sorokin, Gustav Luzhin… I know these names. They were present in the warehouse in San Diego. I feel like pouring over these files, but I know I don't have much time. Nestor could come up here any minute, with the FBI police in tow. I need to work fast. My eyes linger on two pictures sitting on the desk. One's of a homely looking middle aged woman, a dark eyed brunette, with a pleasant smile on her face. The other's a young boy of about seven, looking at the camera, laughing with wild abandon. I can just see a gap in his smile where his milk teeth must have recently fallen out.

_Catherine… little Tony… you have no idea what Nestor is actually doing at work. If you did, those angelic smiles will be replaced with looks of disgust and horror. _

Beep. The monitor displays the log-in page. I copy the information on the post-it into the fields. I cross my fingers, and press ENTER. I'm in, without much of a problem. This can't be so easy…

I call up the FBI database. I have Nestor's passwords. I have his security pass. I swipe it through the card reader integrated into the keyboard when required. As it turns out, the FBI _does_ have files on almost everyone in the country. They're networked with the relevant county Sheriff department databases, police departments in incorporated cities, No wonder they needed to protect this database behind layers of security. The potential for abuse of information of this magnitude is high. It's understandable that I wasn't able to access this portion of the database on my intern security clearance. I would give anything to have this database at my fingertips when performing background checks. It would make my job a whole lot easier, but a whole lot less fun.

The empty search field beckons to me, a realm of possibilities. So much to learn, yet so little time. I type in Trina's name. A long, long list of records fills the screen. Travel history, net worth, past and current addresses, vehicle registrations… The amount of information on the screen is, frankly, a little overwhelming. I'll read it all later. I send the entire file to print. Across the room, behind the door, a small laser printer starts to spit out pages. Hmm. Current address: Virginia Beach. Just over a few hours' drive away.

The file isn't even halfway finished printing. I clear the search field. I replace it with my name. Oh my. The record is flagged, and linked to the open case of the abduction of Lily Kane, Duncan's daughter. Apart from that, my record's a mile long, much longer than that of Trina's. There are records about Lily's murder. Records of my relationship with Beaver. Records about my grades, Dad's average monthly income (not much) and links to some cases I helped the Balboa County Sheriff's department solve. _At least some credit has been given me. _They even have my current address at the Stay-rite hostel. I feel violated. No one has the right to know that much about a person. Not without a very good, compelling reason. I search for an option to delete my record. There isn't one. Oh well. At least there's nothing linking me to Gory. Or the fall of the Sorokins.

Trina's file has just about finished printing. I've already spent fifteen minutes in Nestor's office. I need to get out soon. Perhaps there's enough time for another search. It's a search that I've spent no small amount of time on in the past. Dad always advised me against it, but I persisted, to a degree. I clear the search field. I type in: Lianne Reynolds. My mother's maiden name.

Before I can hit ENTER, the printer spits out the last sheet of paper. Should I leave now? Should I search for Mom? My finger strokes the plastic key.

No. as far as I know, the FBI police could already be combing the building for me. Nestor could be getting his security pass expunged from the security system at this very moment. There's no time to lose. I need to leave. Now. I can search for Mom when all this is over. I pick up the sheets of paper from the printer tray. I fold each sheet into quarters, and place one sheet in each of my pockets. I don't place any sheets in the inner pocket of my suit. Logan's letter and the puka shell occupy that articular place of honor.

I shut down the computer. I run a piece of tissue over all the surfaces I remember touching. I wipe down the security pass and place it on top of the keyboard. I turn to leave. _Wait_. There's something else I have to do. Something else I _must_ do. It is something that has proven its effectiveness in my experience.

I sit back down on the office chair. I retrieve a red Sharpie from the home-made pen cup. I take out a fifty cent piece and a dime from my wallet. I pick up the framed photos standing on the table.

A minute later, perfect, round target signs adorn the faces of Catherine and Tony. I place the pictures at right angles, on top of the stack of files. They won't be ignored. And my threat is made clear.

I cap the marker, wipe it down, and leave the office. I take the stairs. Few people in the building use the stairs; they're far more likely to use the elevators. The security checkpoint isn't any problem. I know the guard in charge; we've spoken a few times. I've give him coffee a few times. He lets me through without any trouble. I retrieve my cell and Taser. I replace the Taser in the holster in the small of my back. I head out of the front doors of the Academy. Nonchalantly. That's right, people, just an intern leaving early on an errand.

I leave and don't look back.

**Friday**

**Veronica**

It's dawn when I wake up. The windows of the car are fogged up with my breath. It's a little stuffy inside the car, but when I open the door, Taser at the ready, the air outside is cool and crisp. I pull down the makeshift curtains covering the windows.

I'm parked along the beach. The early morning joggers are making their rounds, and I can see several beachgoers already setting up their mats on the sand. The sky is clear and the air is fresh. A lone seagull, pure white against the rapidly brightening sky, floats overhead, the sea breeze keeping it airborne. I wipe my eyes and stretch my aching limbs. Sleeping in a car is _not_ comfortable. Especially if your antiquated vehicle isn't equipped with a proper headrest, and the seat only goes back slightly more than an economy class airplane seat.

Seth and the others must be wondering where I am. Well, let them wonder. I'd left a handwritten note with the simple words: "Gone on puzzling errand; don't wait up" written on it. I've cleared out all my belongings from the hostel. They are presently sitting in the boot of the car.

Virginia Beach reminds me a little of Neptune. Situated on the coast, playground of the rich and famous, even the climate's quite similar. And, as a group of motorcyclists on loud, overpowered touring bikes whizz past on the seaside road, so are the motorcycle clubs. I take a change of clothes out of the boot, a towel, my toiletries bag, and go to the public showers.

I'm going to be living out of the car for a while, here at Virginia Beach. I don't know how the FBI found out that I was living at the Stay-rite hostel, but I can't risk them tracking me down here. I'll do my laundry at a Laundromat. I'll shower at the public facilities at the beachside. And I'll sleep in the car, parked at different camp grounds along the beach every night. And if anyone tries anything funny, they'll be getting a three hundred thousand volt surprise.

An hour later, I feel a little better. I'm sitting in a nearby bistro, case files on my lap, and a warm mug of coffee to ward away the chill of the unheated shower. I'm wearing a baseball cap, pulled down low to partially hide my features. My laptop is open on the table, the charger plugged into a nearby wall socket. I'm transcribing Trina's records from the file printout I took from the FBI onto the case file that's on my computer.

Date of birth, blood type, education level. I'm learning more and more about Trina that I have ever known before. Yes, she was adopted when she was young. No, the file, surprisingly, does not contain anything about her biological father, ex-Principal Moorehead. And yes, as I'd always suspected, she has a police record. Small stuff, nothing big. Some shoplifting when she was younger, a couple of speeding tickets, nothing out of the ordinary. My eyes flick over the pages of records as I enter them into Logan's case files. A new suspect.

Hmm. What's this? Financial records. As I'd suspected, the Echolls fortune is due to come under Trina's control, due to the absence of other family members. She doesn't _actually_ have control yet, but she's in a waiting period for the legal proceedings to be finalized. If all goes well, she'll be a multi-millionaire in three months. Quite a step up from a sub-par actress struggling to make ends meet.

And what do we have here? She owns a firearm. Something called a Ruger MKIII. It's chambered in 0.22 caliber. Exactly the same caliber that was used to kill Charlie Stone in Detroit. Coincidence? Maybe. I flip through the pages of the document until I locate Trina's travel history. She's been travelling a lot recently, it seems. Kansas City. New York. Neptune. San Francisco. And yes, she _was_ in Detroit when Charlie Stone was killed. She was filming a music video for some washed up rock and roll star looking to score a comeback. With Trina in the music video? That comeback's not going to happen. Her star power's effectively zero. I pour over the records, but there's no mention if she brought her gun with her.

This is suspicious. Really suspicious. Charlie Stone's death has benefited Trina tremendously. He was the last living person biologically related to Aaron Echolls. Neither Aaron nor Logan left a will. So, much of the estate would have automatically fallen into his hands. With him gone, Trina gets everything. She has too much to gain from his death for it to have been a coincidence. Similarly, she has too much to gain from Logan's death as well. Now, how do I prove it?

I shuffle the well-worn stack of papers. Finally, I find her current address. I cross reference it online. I'm using the free wireless internet provided by the bistro. I'm no longer using my cell to access the internet. It's far too easy for the FBI to track me down that way. My cell is switched off, hidden in the spare tire inside the boot. Excellent. It's just a few miles away; not quite on the other side of the city. I look further down the page. The records helpfully provide her current telephone number. Perhaps I can arrange a meeting…

I finish transcribing the remaining records. I've already had a lot of practice doing so during my time with the TSU. I drain my coffee and pack up. My laptop closes and goes into my backpack. The charger follows. I zip up the bag and leave the bistro.

"Hey lady, want a smoke?"

My right hand automatically darts to the Taser. It's just a friendly looking guy, smoking in the alley next to the bistro. The fumes smell sickly sweet. I highly doubt that it's tobacco he's smoking.

"Did you just call me lady? Never mind, no to the smoke, but could I borrow your lighter?"

He obliges with a smile. I flick the lighter, obtain a steady flame, and brush it along the stack of Trina's records. The entire stack burns quickly, and I scatter the ashes into the wind. I return the lighter to the man. He accepts it with a quizzical expression on his face. I don't bother explaining myself to him. I keep walking.

My next stop is the phone booth located just across the street. It's not occupied. In fact, during my time in the bistro, I've not seen anyone use it. Understandable, as almost everyone is using a cell. The door creaks on well-worn hinges as I open it. I enter the booth and close it behind me. The interior of the phone booth is covered in graffiti. The cheery advertisements for cheap overseas calls have been defaced with spray paint; the models posing in the advertisements have their eyes scratched out. The side of the pay phone bears signs of attempted forced entry. Deep scratches from a screwdriver score the metal side. They look like claw marks. The telephone directory is swinging from its chain, half the pages torn out, repurposed for goodness knows what. _Good thing I know Trina's number, courtesy of the FBI._

The buttons are coated by some sticky syrup. The receiver looks a little _slimy._ And the coin slot is partially blocked by a wad of long-dried gum. Ew. I bend down and tear out a page from the directory. I clear the coin slot as well as I can. I manage to squeeze the required change into the slot. I grasp the receiver with a piece of directory paper and dial with another. The phone rings a few times before it's answered.

"Hello?" The voice emanating from the receiver sounds tired, bored.

"Trina? It's Veronica. Veronica Mars. Remember me?"

"Veronica! Yes! How could I forget the one who found my real parents? How have you been?" The voice perks up, rises by perhaps half an octave.

"Great. I suppose. With what happened to Logan, it's been really hard to get back on my feet. How have you been?"

"Yeah, you used to be his girlfriend. Terrible, terrible, what happened to him. And that suicide note… it really broke my heart! If I had known that he was thinking about such things, I would have moved back to Neptune, kept him company. We were the last two members of the family, you know? And family should stick together." The voice on the phone goes softer, more sympathetic.

"Listen, I'm in town for an internship. Is it OK if I drop by later, just to visit? I'll bring coffee."

"Not a problem at all! Sure, feel free to drop in anytime! My address is…" The voice rises again, reverting to the perky tone that's so familiar to me.

"Don't worry, I've got it." I recite her address from the FBI file.

"How did you know my address?"

"Don't you remember? I'm a private investigator. My job is to find this sort of things out. Nothing remains in the dark for long, you know."

The voice on the line pauses. "I see. So, see you at three?"

I agree and hang up.

Well, that was puzzling. And suspicious. Trina's relationship with Logan was rocky at best. In fact, I've heard nothing about her for the past year. And she seemed genuinely upset about Logan's death. Strange. From what I've seen of her work, Trina's best roles were all non-speaking. And also non-moving. Her attempts at Shakespeare were cringe-worthy and over-dramatic. I highly doubt that she would be able to fake her sadness.

I glance at the digital clock hanging outside the convenience store that's across the road. Ten thirty. A few hours for me to get ready for my encounter with Trina. I walk back to my car and start to prepare.

**2.45 P.M.**

**Veronica**

Trina's living in a small terraced house, roughly in the middle of a row of identical homes. It's situated on a hill, facing the coast. A well-maintained garden greets me as I pull up in front of the house. A small hatchback's parked in the porch. A white wooden fence encircles the yard. Strapped to the fence, with cable ties, is a cheery, colorful wind ornament. It's shaped like a flower and its petals spin in the breeze. The letter box is only marked with the house number. It's a standard house, one in thousands. It could belong to anyone. I check my pockets. Yes, I've a good collection of bugs inside. Electronic trackers, check. Audio surveillance devices, check. I don't plan on planting any video surveillance devices. They're too bulky and would definitely be noticed should Trina try to do spring cleaning or something.

Coffee? Check. In my left hand, I have a cardboard carrier with two paper cups. They're filled with Virginia Beach's finest. Or, at least, the best coffee I managed to find in the short time between organizing the meeting and now. I don't know how Trina likes her coffee. The FBI file wasn't _that_ detailed. I decided to bring the coffee black. She should have sugar and milk if that's how she likes her coffee.

Movement from the corner of my eye. My head snaps to the right. A dove is perched on the wooden fence. Its feathers are the same color as the fence. That's probably why I didn't notice it before. It's staring at me inquisitively. It has dark red eyes. I shoo it away with my free right hand. I accidentally clip the rotating petals of the wind ornament, and it spins faster than ever, rattling loudly against the fence. The bird takes flight, wings slapping together in alarm.

The door opens. Trina peers out at me. She's obviously been alerted to my presence by the noise of the wind ornament. She looks like I remember her, all those months ago at Logan's funeral. Her hair's a little longer. She's not made up. She waves.

"Hi Veronica! How do you like my new pad?"

"Um, Trina, I never saw you old place, remember?"

"Oh yes, silly me. Well, don't stand on ceremony! Come in!"

I recheck my pockets. Yes, the bugs are still there. All charged, working perfectly, ready to go. I take a deep breath and open the gate. Trina waves me in and disappears behind the door. Good. I activate my first electronic tracker and hide it in her car's rear wheel housing. I enter the door, and Trina welcomes me with a quick hug.

The inside of the house is neat, orderly. The wooden floor is spotless, and is clean enough to see my reflection off it. The décor is ordered. Nothing seems out of place. Wood against concrete. Soil that gives rise to plants. Very organic. There's even a fireplace, set into a brick wall, complete with an artificial fire. It's not turned on. It's not that time of the year yet. The room is immaculate. Trina either hires good help, or takes great pride in keeping her house clean. I'm glad I didn't bring any video surveillance devices. They would be discovered within days. Or perhaps even hours.

On the mantelpiece above the faux fireplace are several bottles, lying on their sides. Each of them has a miniature sailing ship inside. The bottle necks are far too small for the ships to have fit through. The detail on the ships is exquisite. Sails billow in imaginary wind. Tiny figures scurry about on decks, hard at work at some unknown task. I slip the first audio bug into a flaw in the cement between two bricks. The color of the bug blends in subtly with the grey background. I hear Trina entering the room, so I pretend to study the ships. It's not difficult; they are genuinely beautiful.

"These are lovely, Trina. Where did you get them?"

"Oh, I made those myself. It's my new hobby. I picked it up after moving here. Come to think of it, I was inspired by the sailboats that greeted me the first time I went to the beach. It's a great way to focus my creative energies in between jobs." Trina bustles about, placing two dessert plates on the coffee table situated in front of the fireplace. "I'm still looking for my big break. Are you okay with chocolate cake?"

"That'll be great. And I brought some coffee with me… do you drink black?"

"I'll get some milk and sugar. Make yourself comfortable!" Trina disappears into the kitchen.

Interesting. Trina makes ships in bottles. I've never known someone who does that. I don't even know how it's done. Are the glass bottles formed _around _the pre-fabricated ship? Is the ship constructed _inside _the bottle? I continue my survey of the room. I'll need to plant at least three more bugs by the time I leave. There! A well-used umbrella sticks out of an umbrella stand. The handle is made of rubber, with a small hole at the top. I squeeze a bug inside the handle. _I hope these bugs are waterproof. _I set the two cups of coffee on the table. And surreptitiously drop the third bug in between the cushions. It's hidden inside a pen from the Neptune Grand. I'm sure Trina can appreciate the irony.

Trina returns, bringing a container of sugar and a pot of milk, together with a small cake. She puts everything down on the coffee table. She takes her cell out of her pocket and rests it on the table.

"Just in case my agent calls. I'm such a slave to the industry." Trina giggles.

She puts a small amount of milk and sugar into her coffee, stirring it in with precise, figure of eight strokes. I take a small sip of my coffee. Good stuff. I could do better, but my espresso machine's thousands of miles away back in Neptune. She cuts two slices out of the cake and places one on each plate. I slice off a small section and place it in my mouth. Heaven. Smooth, buttery chocolate fudge oozes out of each pore of the cake. I taste a hint of a spice that I can't place. Ginger, maybe? I feel a pang of hunger. Oh yeah, the last time I ate anything was yesterday's lunch. Sandwiches on the roof. No wonder this cake tastes so good. Trina takes a small bite and turns to me.

"So, Veronica, what brings you to Virginia Beach?"

"Oh, I have a summer internship up in D.C."

"D.C.? Wow, isn't that, like, four hours away?"

"Four and a half, actually. But I don't have anything on at work today so I came down to see you."

Trina beams. "It's so lovely to have visitors. My agent rarely visits now, you know? Job offers are getting scarce. No one wants me as an extra in police procedurals anymore."

"How so?"

"Apparently, I'm getting too familiar as a crime victim. I guess it's inevitable that sources of work dry up, you know?"

"I… suppose so."

"But enough about me. How have you been, Veronica? How's college? Planning on doing honors?"

_How does Trina know which college I go to? _

"School's good, Trina. The professor who taught my classes was, in fact, arrested for manslaughter halfway through the semester."

"Oooh, murder! Such intrigue! Do tell!" Trina's like a curious puppy. She grabs a cushion and hugs it in excitement. She looks at me with a curious expression on her face.

"It's… a very long story. Look, Trina, do you think I could have some water? The cake's amazing and all, but I'm having a sore throat…"

"Say no more!" Trina walks away toward the kitchen.

The cell's still sitting on the table. _Fingers, don't fail me now. _

The battery cover slides off easily. Fortunately, Trina's using a cell with a removable battery. There's not many places to hide a bug in a cell with an integrated power source. I place the electronic tracker on the inner surface of the battery cover, and secure it in place with sticky tape. It's a small, circular metal wafer. It's small enough to fit in the tiny space between the cover and the battery, yet powerful enough to give me a reading on its location. Unfortunately, I don't have any audio bugs small enough to fit inside. If only I had Tim Foyle's bug with me…

The sound of running water stops. Trina's returning. I close the battery cover and replace the cell in its original position. At least, I _think_ it's in the original position. I'm certain it was facing up, but I'm not sure if it was facing up or down relative to Trina's seating position…

Trina reenters the room. I thank her for the water, and take a big gulp. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Trina pick up her cell. She checks it for messages, but finds none. She puts it back on the table, just as I had left it. I take another bite out of the chocolate cake. It's delicious, and really fills me up. It's actually more of a brownie than a cake. Trina's still looking at me, waiting for my answer.

"Look, Trina, I didn't come here solely to catch up. Truthfully, I've been finding it very difficult to come to terms with Logan's death. It was so abrupt. It was so shocking. I would never have thought that Logan would have killed himself. Not after what happened with Lynn. How have you been coping, Trina? How have you found… I hate the word… closure?"

Trina takes a sip out of her coffee. She stares off into the distance. She's thinking of her answers whilst looking at the bottles on the mantelpiece.

"You know what? I suspected that this was the reason that you called. This is the reason that you drove for four hours to get here. What happened to Logan was a terrible, terrible thing. It's hard to know someone well, and for them to just… die. It really teaches you about mortality." Trina muses.

"I know that. My best friend was murdered three years ago. And I know how I found closure. I found the person responsible."

"Surely you don't mean my Dad? God rest his soul. He was acquitted in a court of law."

"Yes. I _do_ mean Aaron Echolls. And I plan to find closure this time by finding the person responsible for Logan's death." I bite out through clenched teeth. It takes all my reserves of will to stop myself from screaming accusations at her.

"Veronica, I don't know what you mean. Logan's death was a suicide. No one's responsible except… you know… himself."

Trina's really pushing my buttons. I stab the cake with the fork, and swallow another piece. It burns on the way down my throat. "Fine. Let me ask you another question. Do you know who is Charlie Stone?"

"Name doesn't ring a bell…wait. Yes, I'm familiar with his name. Logan did an interview with Larry King, didn't he? He said something… what was it… oh yes! Charlie Stone is his half-brother! How could I have forgotten? I'm not alone in the world after all! Thanks for reminding me, Veronica!" She's beaming at me optimistically.

_Could I have been wrong? Could she actually not have anything to do with the death of Charlie Stone? No one can act that well. Definitely not Trina. She seems genuinely happy._

"I'm sorry, Trina. Charlie Stone was killed about a month ago." Trina's eyes widen in shock. "He was a victim of a failed mugging in Detroit." I don't give her any more details. Let her provide them herself.

"Oh my god." Trina looks shocked. "I'm really alone now. First Mom, then Dad, then Logan. Now, Charlie's gone as well? When does my turn come?" She sniffles into a tissue. "I was in Detroit, you know? Filming a music video of some sort. If I had known that Charlie had moved there, I could have dropped by, you know? He may be illegitimate, but he's still family."

_No one can act that well. Especially not Trina. There's only one reason for that. Logan really killed himself. I went after Gory for _nothing_. I killed him for _nothing. _I took down the Sorokin family for _nothing._ I blackmailed Agent Ramus and Jake Kane for fucking _nothing. _I just lashed out at the first and most obvious target available, and then tried to cover my crimes with even more crimes. And when I finally discovered that Gory was innocent and read Logan's suicide note, I immediately went after the next target. Trina. The poor, lonely woman silently sobbing in front of me. That's it, Veronica. You're officially in denial. Fuck. I need to go somewhere quiet to think. And I need to turn myself in. No more secrets. I've become what I hate. Fuck. I need to get out. Rethink my best course of action. And I need to get out of Trina's life. She has lost all her family. I've only lost a best friend and a boyfriend. How can I compare to that?_

My hand slides between the cushions. But the bugged pen has fallen too far. It's just out of reach, and I can't retrieve it without making obvious movements. Never mind about that. I can leave it there. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing matters except the truth. Nothing matters except the fact that Logan really _did_ kill himself that night in the Grand. Nothing matters except for the realization that all the pain, all the agony, all the nightmares, all the sleepless nights, all the anxiety, all the terror, everything that happened over the past few months, _everything_ was just a result of my misplaced drive for vengeance. My _need_ for someone to be responsible. I feel crushed. I feel like there's a vice around my heart, tightening every second. It's getting a little hard to breathe.

"Veronica? Veronica? Are you all right? You're looking a little pale." Trina waves her hand in front of my eyes. Concern is etched over her face.

"I'm fine. It's nothing. I'm terribly sorry for being the bearer of bad news, Trina. And I'm really sorry, but I need to leave. I've a long drive back to D.C., and work starts early tomorrow." _That's it, Veronica. Keep up the lies. Keep up the subterfuge. You know, of course, that all this is meaningless? What matters is the truth. And the truth is that you screwed up. Big time. And life is never going to be the same ever again._

"Of course! Oh my, look at the time! It's almost five. You'll better get started on the road home before the roads get packed, it being a Friday after all." Trina escorts me outside. I'm not able to retrieve the electronic tracker from her wheel housing. _Oh well, I'll just write these bugs off as lost in the field. Anyway how is all this relevant in light of everything? _

Trina waves as I get into my car and drive off. A flock of large black crows scatters as I pass the open trash can they're feeding from. The nearest police station is half an hour away. I pull into one of the parking spaces in front of the building.

_This is it, Veronica. This is the way it ends. Walk into the station, confess to the murder of Gory Sorokin, and everything will be made right. _

I nod. My mind's made up. I need to act. I need to act, now, before I get cold feet and start running again, hiding behind lies. My fingers hook the door handle.

_Wait. _I know this feeling. Déjà vu. I've missed something. But what could it be?

What was my original reason for meeting Trina? Yes, it was to bug her house. Yes, it was to find out what she knew about Logan's death and Charlie's murder. What have I found out? All I can remember is a teary eyed Trina, lamenting about the deaths in her family.

_What was I trying to find out before my crisis of conscience?_ What was it? Something about letting her provide the details…

Yes. I remember now. I told Trina that Charlie was murdered in Detroit. I didn't mention that he was living there. I didn't mention the date of his murder. He could have been in Detroit for _anything_. Visiting friends, relatives, on holiday? Yet Trina was talking about visiting him on a social call. Trina's hiding something, all right. She must be the world's best actress, the way she manipulated my emotions during my visit. Why, look at me right now. Doubtful, scared, guilt-ridden, taking the easy way out of turning myself in, instead of investigating the deaths of Charlie Stone and Logan to the best of my ability. I'm even parked in front of the police station, ready to carry out that cowardly act. She must be celebrating right now. She must be thinking that she's in the clear, now that the nosy know-it-all finally believes her. Me? I just feel fortunate that I wasn't able to retrieve any of the bugs I'd already planted in Trina's house. I'd have to monitor Trina. She knows what car I drive, so I can't station myself too close to the house. Good thing that the bugs I've planted have a decent range.

I mentally plan a timetable for the next few days. It's a simple plan, really. Stakeout throughout the day. Monitor and record the audio in her house. Tail her wherever she goes. And, as an afterthought, maybe some sleep and a shower. Oh yes, and food. Can't forget that little detail. The chocolate cake should sustain me for… let's see… two more days? I should get some sandwiches tomorrow. And coffee. Can't function without coffee.

I start the car and put it into gear. I reverse out of the parking lot, stalling only once. _I'm getting the hang of this manual business. _I drive off onto the road I just came from. I'm going back to the direction of Trina's house. My stakeout starts today. Overhead, a flock of crows flies across the street against the backdrop of the sunset, heading home to roost. I wish I can do the same, but I'm on the most important case of my life. I'll get my rest when everything is finished, when the truth comes out. And the truth _will _come out. I'm sure of it. It's only a matter of time.

Along the road, neon signs flicker and light up. Streetlights attempt to follow suit, but many are in disrepair. It's ironic how the neon lights provide more illumination than public lighting. It's a Friday evening, and the businesses need to make money. The neon lights welcome the coming darkness like I would like to embrace the truth. And the truth _will_ come out. Nietzsche wrote that there are no facts, only interpretation. I disagree. Truth and fiction are as miscible as oil and water. And just like oil, the truth will come to the surface. Sometimes it will require a little… assistance. And that's where I'll come in.

The engine's straining. _Oh yes, manual. _I shift up and the engine's roar diminishes a little. Time to work.

_The truth is rarely pure and never simple. And I shall not rest until it is exposed. _

**A/N: **Please review! I'll definitely respond to any signed comments.

**A/N2: **Who's responsible for Logan's death? Is no one responsible for Logan's death? Did Trina kill Charlie Stone? Is Veronica on a wild goose chase? I hope I've written well enough to make any and all of the possibilities believable. Let me know how I did.


	17. Chapter 17: Where in the world?

**Title: Get Tough, Get Even**

**Author: zmdr**

**Fandom: Veronica Mars**

**Rating: T for language, disturbing imagery, violence**

**Characters: Veronica**

**Summary: Post 3x20, Veronica takes it personally. Waaay personally. **

**Spoilers: All of VM is spoiled. Warning: Major character death. Possible OoC. **

**Disclaimer: Veronica Mars is one of the greatest shows. Ever. Pity I don't own it. Actually, if I own it I'll probably ruin it, as can be seen in the following fic. Rob Thomas owns all, CW owns rights.**

**A/N: **So sorry for the wait. Had a very, very busy week at college. Right now, I'm doing final editing and proofreading at 4 in the morning, so please excuse any grammatical errors, tonal irregularities and such.

**A/N2:** This chapter serves as a ramp-up to chapter 18. I've decided to use Nestor Ramus again, as to me, he's an interesting character. Hope you guys don't mind him.

**A/N3: **This chapter title is a shout-out to the Carmen Sandiego series, which I fondly recall playing when I was much younger.

**A/N4: **And more dialogue. That atrophied dialogue writing muscle really needs its exercise.

_The truth is rarely pure and never simple. And I shall not rest until it is exposed. _

**One Day Earlier**

**Thursday, 7 P.M.**

**Seth**

"Where in the world is Veronica Mars?" Omar whines.

Yep, I'm wondering that too. It's getting late; the sun will be setting soon. The three of us, Omar, Callie and myself, are gathered outside the main entrance of the FBI Academy, under the veranda. It's starting to drizzle; Omar's looking very nervous right now. I look over the sprawling parking lot. It's sprawling precisely because the Academy's situated inside a military base; there's plenty of space for a car park. It's half an hour past the end of the work day, so the parking area is, already, half empty. I glance at my watch. 7.01 P.M. I stare at the entrance, as if the power of my mind could will Veronica to walk out of the door. I dial her number on my cell. It goes straight to voicemail.

The door opens. My hopes rise. Oh. It's a harried looking man. I recognize him as one of our fellow interns. He nods at us in greeting and hurries down to his vehicle.

"Look, either Veronica's antique car has magically morphed itself upmarket, or she's gone. Deal with it." Callie says.

Indeed, the space which I remember Veronica parking this morning is now occupied by a brand new, bright yellow Chevy. Yep. Either she's managed to upgrade during the day, or she's indeed gone. But therein lies the problem. My pickup only has space for two, and the second seat's already taken by Callie. Omar will have to ride in the cargo bed. And, it's drizzling. Omar looks forlornly at the cloudy sky.

"Let's give it another five minutes. If she's not out by then, we should start making our way back. The weather isn't looking good." I try to placate Omar.

The entrance to the building opens again. An agent steps out. He's familiar.

Agent Ramus is the very epitome of professionalism. In fact, I aspire to be like him. Someday. He's confident, competent and respected. I can roll with that. But right now, he's pale as a sheet. He looks… nervous. And angry. I've never seen him like this before. Not even during an operation. Something's gotten him spooked. I can see beads of sweat rolling down his neck, soaking into his shirt collar. He seems to be looking for someone. Well, he's just the person I was looking for.

"Agent Ramus! Is everything all right?" I wave.

He starts at my call. He stares at me blankly for a few seconds, then his face lights up in recognition. But he still looks worried. He walks briskly over. He nods at Omar and Callie, and pulls me to the side.

"You're roommates of Veronica Mars. Is that correct?"

"Yes. How is…"

"Tell me _everything_ you know about Ms. Mars."

"Um… why…"

"Just do it. I like to know more about my interns. Before you started your rotation, I asked her the same about you."

"What did she say about me?"

"That is irrelevant. Now. Tell me about Ms. Mars."

I pause and gather my thoughts. Veronica Mars. The strange girl who occupies the top bunk next to mine. The girl with the intense, calculating stare. The girl who single-handedly hunted down the thief who stole our belongings. The girl who no one bothered to thank for the help, come to think about it. The girl who spends her nights furiously typing god-knows-what into that laptop of hers. The girl who I've never seen sleep, nor smile. Hmm. What shall I say?

If I were in Agent Ramus' position, I'd probably appreciate the truth.

"I don't really know Veronica that well. She doesn't… really talk to us much, come to think of it."

"That's okay. What can you tell me about her? What have you observed?"

"She's very capable. Intelligent. Skillful. Razor sharp. Paranoid. Omar told me that during her time at the OSU, she completed her allocated work well ahead of schedule. Quality wise, it was well above expectations. Also, on the first day we came here, we got burgled. The very next day, she retrieved what was stolen. Turns out she bugged her own luggage for security."

"Interesting." Agent Ramus strokes his chin, almost as if he had a beard. Wonder how he looks like with a beard? Or perhaps a moustache? I continue.

"Honestly, I'm a little worried about her. She seems perpetually on edge. Staring into space sometimes, seeing things that aren't there, overreacting violently at the slightest hint of unforeseen physical contact. And I've never seen her sleep, either. And I'm not exactly an early to bed, late to rise kinda guy too."

Agent Ramus has a frown on his forehead, between his cold blue eyes. He motions for me to continue. I clear my throat.

"She's definitely stressed out over something. Or she has some kind of baggage. Not the physical kind either."

"I've read her file. It's an… accurate assessment." Nestor nods.

_Hold on, the FBI has a file on Veronica?_

"Now for a hypothetical question for you, Seth." Nestor says. "Suppose there is a person you absolutely _hate. _You hate him with every fiber of your being. Suppose you found some form of leverage over this person. And suppose you chose to blackmail that person. Suppose that person did as you asked, would you still exercise that leverage out of spite?"

_What does this have to with anything? Ah, this is probably some kind of interview question. Something like what Google or Apple would ask a potential recruit. A question of ethics._

I think hard. I've never hated someone _that_ much before. I make good friends. I don't have many enemies. I make my enemies my friends, whenever possible.

"I'm not sure, Nestor. I've never been in such a dilemma before. But, since this is hypothetical, I'd probably honor the terms of the agreement. It's bad enough that I'm already blackmailing this person. I don't think I'm mean enough to betray that person further."

Agent Ramus looks thoughtful. He looks me straight in the eyes and asks his next question.

"What do you think Veronica Mars would do?"

_Honestly? Based on what I've seen of her, it won't surprise me if she betrays the person she hates. She doesn't seem like the kind of person that would forgive and forget. But I can't tell Agent Ramus that. It's not fair to Veronica, and he would get a better assessment of her after more contact. _

"She's a nice girl," I lie, "You'll know her better after working with her a little more."

Agent Ramus looks… relieved. Was it something I said?

"Sorry to interrupt, but, it's getting dark, the rain's getting heavier, and we really need to get home." Omar butts in. "Oh yeah, you're that Organized Crime guy. Where's Veronica?"

"Er… She wasn't feeling well so I sent her home. In fact, let me give you a lift back. I've got to check up on her anyway."

_Veronica's sick. That would explain a lot. _

"Great! You rock!" Omar cheers. Next to him, Callie's flipping through her notes with an expression of complete and utter boredom on her face.

We pile into our respective vehicles and drive back to the motel. Somehow Agent Ramus knows the way. Omar's probably directing him.

As I get closer to the hostel, I know that something's not right. Veronica's not parked in her usual spot, outside the bank. The lot is empty. And when I open the room door, expecting to find her sitting on her bed, computer in her lap, or sleeping off her illness, I find the second indication that all is not as it should be. The room is empty. Her bed is neatly made. Her locker's cleaned out. And her bags are gone. Agent Ramus walks in behind me. He's gone pale again. He reaches up to Veronica's bed and grasps a note. It's covered in her familiar handwriting.

_Gone on a puzzling errand; don't wait up._

Agent Ramus loosens his collar with his other hand. He's really looking worried now. He shakes his head. I can see the mask slide down over his face. He's back as the professional agent I know.

"That's right. Now I remember. I sent Veronica on a mission. A little surveillance work, if you will. I just came back to confirm that she has indeed left for her assignment. And it's great that she didn't tell you all about it. Secrecy and confidentiality is a good quality that we value greatly." He nods to himself.

He seems to have convinced Callie and Omar, but I still have my doubts. Agent Ramus had no reason to lie to us back at the Academy. What's really going on?

Oh well, it's none of my business. Veronica definitely can take care of herself. She's demonstrated that many times in the past. Anyway, it's another early start to the day tomorrow, and there's still that transportation problem to sort out. Omar can't be sitting in the back of my truck everyday…

Agent Ramus leaves the room quietly. I slip out to bid him farewell, but he's already halfway down the corridor. Perhaps it's my imagination, but over the sounds of the hostel; the muffled voices of Omar and Callie talking, and the neighbors playing a rowdy game of cards, I hear him murmur.

"Where in the _world_ is Veronica Mars?"

**Wednesday, 10.00 A.M. **

**Veronica**

Trina Echolls must be the most boring person alive. Ever. Right now, Trina's tending to her garden. I can see her through my view finder. She's wearing a handkerchief over her head like a bandanna. She's squatting on the lawn, clipping blades of grass with a small pair of scissors. It gleams in the late morning sun. She puts a lot of effort into taking care of her house. I can see why the interior was so spotless when I visited on Friday. Through the window, just obscured by the frame, I can see the edge of a kitchen table. If I move my observation post, and change my angle, I know what I'll see in the middle of the table. A clear glass bottle, with a half-constructed ship inside, masts rising from the wooden deck.

It's been half a week since I'd started my surveillance. And so far, not much of note has happened. Speaking of notes… I flip open my laptop and open my surveillance file.

_Saturday. Trina wakes up at eight. She cooks breakfast, humming the theme tune to some generic police procedural I can't, for my life, remember the name of. She eats said breakfast. She does some cleaning. Noon. Trina receives a call. Presumably her agent. She hasn't received any roles this time. Front page news, people. She seems disappointed, but resigned. _

_At one in the afternoon, she takes her car out. The electronic tracker shows that she's driven to a bank. About ten miles. She takes lunch at a café opposite the bank. Manicotti. Hungry. My stomach rumbles, but I must continue observing. One thirty. She enters the bank. I can see her enter the safe deposit room through the clear glass windows. She stays inside for quite some time. _

_Three thirty. She leaves the bank. Two hours inside the safe deposit room? That's weird. And my eyes are aching from staring through my camera viewfinder, a quarter of a mile away. She enters the car and drives away. I follow. Four in the afternoon. Trina stops at a nearby Wal-Mart. I park in a separate parking lot, on the other side of the building, and enter. I find her through the bug on her cell phone. She's in between aisles ten and eleven, deciding between house brand or organic vegetables. I tail her discreetly. _

_Five. Trina leaves the Wal-Mart. All I've learnt from this excursion is that Trina eats healthy. Lean meat, green vegetables, fish. Organic produce. She drives off again, and I'm behind her. Not too close, not too far off. _

_Six. Trina arrives back at home. Cooks dinner. Hums a tune from yet another police procedural. Eats dinner. Pan-fried chicken breast with salad. My mouth waters. I only have coffee here. It's gotta do. _

_Seven. Trina clears her table and takes out some supplies. A glass bottle, and some other things too small to be seen clearly from my vantage point across the block. They look like lock picks. She puts on spectacles with magnifiers – loupes, and starts fiddling with her tools and the bottle. I get it. She's making another ship in the bottle. So _that's_ how they do it. I've always thought that they were pre-formed and the bottle was constructed around it. It seems like hard work. A great potential hobby. _

_Eleven P.M. Trina keeps her tools, leaves the bottle on the table, and goes to bed. If I squint, I can just see a small keel suspended in the bottle, with tiny ribs protruding to the side. It's roughly, very roughly approaching the shape of a boat's hull. _

_Sunday. Nothing new to report. Trina doesn't leave the house, except to take care of the garden in the morning. She does housework in the afternoon. And she works on her hobby at night. The ship's hull is taking shape. It looks like an oblong overripe banana from this distance. _

_Monday. It's the same as Sunday. Trina's agent calls one more time. No roles available. The hull of the ship in the bottle's nearly complete. _

_Tuesday. Trina visits the bank again. Two hours. And Wal-Mart. Fish, lean meat, greens. Almost identical to Saturday. Note to self: check out the bank. The hull of the ship in the bottle is complete, and Trina's starting to insert the masts. _

I slap the laptop close with a sigh. Based on the current trend, Trina would be spending the entire day at home. Waxing the floor, maybe. Perhaps receiving yet another negative call from her agent. And working on the ship at night. I'm actually pretty interested as to how that will turn out. A Spanish Galleon? An English frigate? Not enough has been crafted to make it obvious.

I have to check the bank out. Spending two hours in a safe deposit room twice a week is strange enough. Doing that as the only break in the routine of cleaning and ship construction, is just plain suspicious. I can take a break from observation. Trina's not going anywhere.

I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot.

**Twenty minutes later**

The bank that Trina visits twice a week is a small branch. It's situated at the corner of two busy streets. Across the road on the right is the café which Trina has her lunch before entering the vault. On the other side of the bank is a post office. A park occupies the last of the four corners. I park behind the café and enter the bank.

As I find out, it's a relatively simple process to set up a safe deposit box in the bank. One just has to provide a proof of identity and, of course, pay a fee, seeing that I don't have an account with this particular bank. Good thing that college private investigation at five hundred bucks a case has given me a significant amount of savings.

I hand my driver's license and three hundred dollars in cash over to the smiling bank employee. According to her name tag, she's Gretchen. Of course, I use my fake driver's license. So according to this bank, I'm Valerie Monique. And I'm twenty-one years of age. Excellent. The FBI won't pick me up here.

"Come this way, Ms. Monique." The bank teller leads me to the side of the room. She enters a code into the keypad next to a locked door, and swipes her security card into the reader. It beeps. The door opens with a click, and swings outward with a squeal.

The interior of the vault is rather cramped. Near the entrance, there are two rooms on each side of a short hallway. Presumably, those are for the use of the box owners. Administration of one's own safe deposit box needs a measure of privacy, after all. Apart from the two rooms, the safe deposit area isn't too big. It's not a large bank branch, after all. The area is separated into two aisles. The walls are covered in safe deposit boxes. Each is perhaps three inches tall and six inches wide. Each box has a number engraved on its metal door. On either side of the number, there's a keyhole. Presumably I'll need to provide my own key, and the other key's provided by the teller. I've seen all of this before, a few years ago when cleaning out Mom's box. Boxes like these hold many secrets. Even the bank doesn't keep an inventory of the contents. For all I know, the box next to my head – I check the number, 325 – may be holding a lost Picasso. It could be holding mementos of great personal but zero financial value. It could be holding surveillance photographs of loved ones with targets drawn on their faces. What secrets does Trina have hidden in this vault?

I'm glad I chose this way to gain access to this room. There's no way I'm going to be able to sneak into a bank vault. Security cameras cover the entrance; the teller blocked my view of the keypad when entering the code. And I've no desire to attract any police attention. Breaking into a bank is definitely going to catch the attention of the cops.

I look around the room. Good. No security cameras on the ceilings. Apparently I'm not only paying for the privilege of storing my belongings safely, but I'm also purchasing privacy. Up ahead, the teller sticks two keys into a box midway along the row. She turns both of them at the same time. Clockwise. The box opens and the door swings open. She takes out the left key and gives it to me.

"Thank you for your patience, Ms. Monique. Take your time to place your items into the safe deposit box. Press the button on the intercom," she indicates the microphone set into the wall, next to the door handle, "and I'll come down and help you to lock the box up."

I nod my thanks and she leaves. The vault door shuts behind her with a dull clang. I'm alone in the room. I try the doors of the viewing rooms. They open easily. The doors can be locked from the inside. They are set in a solid frame. I can see felt lining the inside of the frame. Soundproofing. Each room contains a plain white table and two chairs. A simple digital clock hangs on the wall. The large digits which show the time are offset by the much smaller numbers which show the date to the side. That will do. Behind each clock, I install an audio bug. High sensitivity, low signal range. Good thing the clock isn't analog. The sound of the clock ticking can drown out what I'm trying to pick up. The bug can pick up the rustle of pages turning from across a quiet room. However, the receiver needs to be less than a hundred yards away from it. That's what differentiates the T6 from its competition. A hundred yards. The receiver needs to be within that radius. To be safe, it needs to be even closer, due to the thick, radio wave absorbing steel walls of the vault. Good thing that I have the perfect location to stow the receiver. A place where no one will ever look.

I pull the container out of the safe deposit box. It's plain matte steel, gray and boring. A simple latch holds it closed, hiding whatever secrets I may choose to conceal within. I take it into one of the viewing rooms and shut the door. I take a seat. I open my backpack. In the metal case, I place the receivers for the T6. I close the case. Oh, wait. Almost forgot. I reopen the metal case and throw in some battery packs. I connect these to the receivers. That should last them a few more days. Just enough to capture what Trina's doing during her time here. I also store a receiver for two video capture bugs inside the metal case. The case is getting very cramped. There's just enough space for me to squeeze the very last battery pack inside and connect it to the video receiver. I set the timers on the receivers. Trina's estimated time of arrival is on Saturday, so I program the receivers to start recording from Saturday morning. I swing the case cover down, closing it. The case snaps shut. Barely.

I examine the clock hanging from the wall. Unlike audio bugs, video surveillance units have the distinct disadvantage of being bulkier. Also, they require a direct line of sight to their surveillance location. Both help to make it extremely difficult to hide a bug in plain sight. I've got to get creative. I scour the room. Air vent? Nah, I'm not tall enough to reach it, even standing on the table. Potted plant at the corner of the room? Yeah, right. A black appliance amongst green foliage? Real sneaky. I look at the clock again. _This could work. _

I dig into my backpack. I pull out my multi-tool. With some difficulty, I pull out the awl. _I could get used to this thing. My switch blade never had such attachments. Perhaps it's time for it to retire…_

I pull the clock down from the wall again. It has a thin wooden border around the digital clock face. It's painted black. Really chic, modern looking. Also, a perfect place to hide a video surveillance device. It takes almost no effort at all to bore a hole through the cheap wood. I flick the sawdust off into a plastic bag from the nearby convenience store. The bug fits just right into the space behind the wooden border and the wall. Just to make sure it's pointing at the direction I want, I replace the clock on the wall and calibrate the bug with a laser pointer. Perfect. The bug's now pointed directly at the table. Experience tells me that the field of vision would incorporate most of the room, including anyone who would be sitting in the chairs. Now, for the other room…

SQUEEEEK!

I jump as the vault creaks open, the high-pitched sound filtering through the sound proofing. Through the slit window, I see a middle-aged man dressed in a business suit enter, followed by the teller, Gretchen. _Great. Company. _I hear muffled voices as they disappear from my view. Soon, I see the door on the opposite side of the corridor open, and then close. I can hear the vault door closing through the sound proof door of my room. I rise from my seat. I tiptoe across the corridor and peek into the slit window of the next room. Yep. The middle-aged man's inside, pulling a thick stack of what looks like financial reports from his metal case. He has a calculator on the table. Fuck. I need to install the video surveillance bug in that room too. Oh well. I'll just wait until he's gone. I've a copy of today's papers in my backpack. Time to do a little catch-up with the goings-on…

_Great. Looks like I'm going to be here for a while. _

**Nestor Ramus**

The sight of Vicky… no. The sight of Veronica Mars' empty bed chilled me to the bone. That and her cryptic note. Right now I fear for the safety of Catherine and Tony more than ever. I'd hate for them to enter WitPro. I won't be able to see them, they won't be able to see me. Tony will forget I exist, and Catherine will hate me. If she doesn't already. All this because I underestimated one teenaged girl.

I knew she would be trouble the moment I laid my eyes on her, those weeks ago in San Diego. I should have suspected something. Should've, would've, could've. It was too easy, too coincidental. First, a letter comes in, fingering someone for a crime that hit very close to home for the leadership of the Sorokin family, and in less than a week the person in question just turns up out of the blue? It took everyone in the family by surprise. Boris and Lev _just_ had to take a look. It was a great plan. She made excellent bait.

I never suspected a thing. Lev never suspected a thing. Neither did Boris. Neither did poor, scatter-brained Anton. I was too distracted with the paperwork at the end of the job to notice when she disappeared from the hospital. That didn't hurt our case too badly. I, after all, know everything, the ins and outs of the Sorokin family. The two of them fried in court. A conviction was almost guaranteed. Of course, I was hidden from sight, my voice electronically garbled. No one could identify me. And when I finally shaved and cut my hair, not even my wife could recognize me.

Veronica, or at least, Vicky's statement that she killed Gorya Sorokin struck me as odd. She appeared to be a gold-digging groupie. If she truly killed Gorya like she claimed she did, she would have to be a lot smarter, more ruthless, more intelligent that she appeared. Gorya's death did, after all, smack of a suicide. As I dug deeper, inconsistencies started to surface. Gorya's fingerprints on the syringe were atypical of how one usually uses a syringe. They were more like… he was rolling them around in his hands instead of actually injecting himself. Also, Boris told me that Gorya was a smart person, and would never do anything so stupid. But, then again, Boris also told me that Gorya never would do drugs. And Gorya's autopsy showed evidence of chronic drug use. I'll have to take Boris' assurances with a pinch of salt.

It was such a shock when Vicky reappeared in front of me in the elevator that I instinctively reverted to my persona of Pravda. I could read her like an open book. I could see the fear in her eyes. The fire that grew beneath it. And when she revealed that she knew Catherine and Tony, I suddenly found out that I couldn't read her at all. And after our confrontation, when Mandy, the receptionist, let me into my office, I saw what was on my desk. I saw the photos with targets drawn on their faces, with my own stationery. I have never feared so much for Catherine's and Tony's lives before today. It's not a good feeling.

Veronica Mars. She's a wild card. An unknown variable. She's probably suffering from post-traumatic stress. I'm much of the cause of that stress, I must admit. But I'm not apologizing for that. The ends justify the means, and putting an emerging crime family out of business is well worth one traumatized teenaged girl. She's volatile. I've read her file, together with the police report of that incident at her motel last week. Apparently she Tasered the receptionist who stole her belongings. It appears that she's violent too. The report states that the perpetrator was taken into custody with a bloody, broken nose. Veronica's a ticking time bomb. It's only a matter of time before she cracks and destroys everything I've worked for. And she must be stopped.

She's been in my office. She's drawn target signs on Catherine and Tony's faces. The underlying threat cannot be clearer. _Stay clear or they die. _I can't guarantee that if I leave her alone, she won't tip-off Odessa in New York about them. I can't guarantee their safety in the Witness Protection Program. The only way to ensure their safety is to stop Veronica Mars.

I pulled my search history. She was reading through her own file, and that of someone named Trina Echolls. That name sounded familiar, somewhat. This person lives in Virginia Beach. A contact? I thought that it would make a good place to start searching for Veronica Mars.

Which is why I'm here, driving up and down the beachside road, looking in vain for Veronica Mars. I'm armed with a picture from her file. She's smiling, radiant, innocence incarnate. I'm also armed with my trusty sidearm, and several… let's call them tools of the trade. I've already told my superiors that I need to be out of town for a while. I've told them I sent Veronica on an assignment. They trust me. They don't ask any questions.

My eyes narrow as I pass a blond girl walking down the sidewalk. Could it be? No. It's not her. The girl only looks like Veronica from the back. My eyes flick over to another blond walking in the opposite direction. Nope. Not her again. In fact, the entire city is full of blonds. This is going to be difficult. I make a U-turn. Time for another circuit. I drive off, muttering under my breath.

"Where in the world is Veronica Mars?"

**Veronica**

I've been reading today's papers for what seems to be the fourth time, and clock on the wall tells me it's one in the afternoon. Wow. Three hours, just gone like that. The classified advertisements section is starting to look very interesting… I see the door opposite mine open. _Finally. _The middle-aged man walks out, carrying his metal case. The door automatically swings shut behind him. I wait until he calls Gretchen down into the vault. She arrives and helps him lock his metal case back into the safe deposit box. They both leave. I quickly slip into the other room. Likewise, I bore a hole in the wooden frame surrounding the digital clock. I install another video surveillance device behind this clock. I calibrate it again with a laser pointer.

The metal case which contains all the digital receivers is really heavy right now. In contrast, my backpack is almost empty. I slide the case into the hollow in the safe deposit box and close the door. Gretchen arrives quickly when I press the button on the intercom. She helps me to lock the box, and escorts me out of the bank with a smile. I wish I can be as cheerful as her. For her, the evening will probably be spent sleeping in a comfortable bed, eating a hearty meal, enjoying a hot shower. For me, it'll be more surveillance, in an uncomfortable car, maybe grabbing a couple of hours of shuteye when I'm sure Trina is not going anywhere, a sip of tepid coffee, and an icy cold shower in the morning. Such is the life of a girl in search of the truth.

I step out of the bank and am hit by the Sun's glare. Yep, it's already past midday. Despite that, I'm feeling exhausted. I check my laptop. Yep, according to the bug tracking interface, Trina's still at home. Probably doing gardening or something. Her car's still parked in the driveway. I close the computer and return it into my bag. _Perhaps I'll be able to catch a few hours sleep. Police officers mainly look out for people sleeping illegally at night. I should be safe in the middle of the day. _

I wait patiently for a car to pass by so I can cross the road to reach my car. It's a dark blue Crown Vic. The car takes its time to pass. I glare at the driver, but his face is shrouded in shadow. Because the car's moving so slowly, I need to wait for another few cars to pass by before I can cross. _Damn those inconsiderate drivers. I'm sure that guy would speed through a puddle to drench a pedestrian, just because he can. _

I stifle a yawn. Yep, definitely time for a nap. An old couple is waiting to cross the road. They're waiting at the gap between my car and the one parked behind it. I give way to them, waiting beside the green Nissan that's parked behind my car. I stretch. Tight muscles creak, joints pop and I groan. I really need to take a break.

Knock knock!

I jump as the driver of the Nissan raps on his windshield. He rolls down the window and sticks his head out.

"Hey, Miss… I appreciate the show, but you're blocking my way, and I need to get a move on. So, excuse me."

I didn't even realize that there was someone in the parked car. I apologize and move to my car. I get into the old Toyota. Despite it being a little musty, dented and uncomfortable, I'm starting to see it as home. Familiarity breeds content.

Behind, the green Nissan turns into the road and moves off. I put my backpack on the passenger seat and take out my laptop. I check the bug interface. Trina's still at home. Still no changes. Perfect time to catch a short nap. I close my laptop and replace it in my bag.

I start the engine, shift gears and turn into the road. To the beach I go.

**Nestor Ramus**

There she is! I slow down as I examine her face. Yes, there's no question about it. Veronica Mars is here. She's standing next to the road. She's wearing a baseball cap which obscures half of her face, but I'm sure it's her. She's got an extremely annoyed expression on her face. No fear there. She probably can't see me through the tint in the glass. I follow her with my eyes through my rear-view mirror. She's crossing the road, stopping next to a dark green Nissan… Good. That would be an easy car to follow.

I make an illegal U-turn at the next junction. I ignore the irate honking and fingers the local drivers give me. I resume my snail's pace. Up ahead, I see Veronica's car pull out of the parking lot. It passes a beat up, old blue Toyota. I distinctly remember owning one like that a long time ago…

_Focus, Nestor. _That's right, the green Nissan occupies my entire world now. I see the left turning indicator start blinking. I do the same. I tail her car, keeping at least ten vehicle lengths from her. And when I stop, I allow at least five vehicles to separate us. I don't allow any large vehicles to block my line of sight of her car. Veronica's escaped me once. I'm not going to let her escape another time. Not when the stakes are so high. My family needs to stay safe. They are my world. I would do _anything_ to protect them. Anything. I check my pistol. The gun feels dense in my hand. It's loaded. I check the safety. The ends justify the means. I look up. Up ahead, the light is now green. Veronica turns and I follow.

She's headed for the freeway. Good. I'd be able to pull her over there. Fewer witnesses. She hasn't been able to see my face. She's no idea I'm on her tail. She won't do anything stupid like run from a police officer. At least, I don't think so. However, her recent actions have smacked of desperation. All right. Maybe she'll run. And then perhaps I will have something concrete to take her in for.

Veronica enters the ramp leading into the highway. This is it. I open my glove compartment and pull out my light bar. It goes onto the dashboard. The siren's already integrated into my car. We enter the highway. I maneuver behind the Nissan. I flick the switch on the blinker. Immediately, the Nissan slows down and pulls over to the right. Strange. Something's wrong. Veronica's surprised me yet again.

I stop behind the car. I ready my weapon. I know Veronica has a Taser. I know she knows how to use one. And I've been hit by a Taser before, back in San Diego. It's rather unpleasant. I'd rather that not happen again.

"FBI! Leave the vehicle with your hands in the air! Do not make any sudden movements!" I yell. I take cover behind my open door. I aim through my open window.

The door opens. A leg slowly comes out, touches the floor. A person slowly emerges from the car. His hands are in the air.

Wait. A man? It's not Veronica.

"Do you have anyone else in your vehicle?" I shout across the distance.

"No!"

I'm getting a very bad feeling about this. I straighten up from behind my door. I holster my weapon. I walk over to the green Nissan. My shoes crunch in the gravel scattered on the road shoulder. The car's empty. The driver kindly presents his boot for inspection. Just a guitar case. I check inside. Yep, the case contains a guitar. Veronica's small, yes, but she's definitely not hidden in this car. I'm back at square one again.

"Fuck!" I yell over the sound of traffic. I kick a small pebble as hard as I can. It flies about twenty yards off the road. It bounces a few times and disappears from sight.

"Excuse me, officer," the man tries to interject, but I ignore him. I shout once more over the din of the traffic.

"Where in the world is Veronica Mars?"

**A/N:** Please review! I'll definitely reply to any signed reviews.

**A/N2: **I'll be taking a short break to work on the next chapter. I've got to get a few things settled in terms of timeline and pacing, and formulating the reveals that will happen in the next chapter. I should be able to publish next Sunday.


End file.
